


Solace in Abyss

by zarinthel



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: AU Timeline, Gen, Late Heavensward Spoilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-11 07:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 25,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20542151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarinthel/pseuds/zarinthel
Summary: Children of the land, answer this;'Why must you turn to empty bliss?'Tell me why break trust, why turn the past to dust,Seeking solace in the abyss





	1. Scene One: Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly, Ishgard

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware this is extremely niche.

“Valerian!” Aymeric looks up from his desk, and smiles warmly. “What can I do for you, my friend? If it’s to do with the search for the crystal’s being smuggled, then I’m afraid neither I nor Thancred have made much headway.” 

Aymeric had looked forward to spending some time with the mysterious Scion who Valerian loves so dearly. Sadly, it had been less informative than he’d hoped, with the man still so clearly grappling with re-entering this world into such changed circumstances. 

Valerian nods, causing twining urges of guilt, fondness and.. To churn and curl in Aymeric’s stomach. 

“I have no doubt you will succeed,” he says, flat and casual. 

Haurchefaunt had once said that speaking to the warrior of light was like speaking to a force of nature, if a force of nature had beautiful amethyst eyes, a carved chest, and long, delicate fingers. 

“I came about something else,” Valerian continues. “As you may know, I am a trained white mage.” Aymeric hadn’t known that until Valerian had showed up at Estinien’s bedside with a conjurer’s cane. “Despite that, I’m afraid my aptitude for destruction far outstrips what amount of healing I can manage. Thus, it is not the discipline I tend to turn to. However, the qualification for a white mage is not healing aptitude, but the ability to hear and channel the will of the elementals.” 

Aymeric waits for Valerian to reach his winding conclusion. 

“The last time I was in Azys Lla, I was aiding some fellow Scions in defeating the eikons that had been imprisoned there. The Garleans kept weakening the prison during their investigations. After I finished with that, I.. heard the call of the elementals who call Azys Lla home. Though much less powerful than the consciousness of the Twelveswood, they never the less communicated their desires quite clearly: There is something wrong with the lifestream within the chamber where I killed your father and his knights. I am to fix this.” 

Each word hits Aymeric like a blow. 

“After doing more investigating, I came to the conclusion that some of the men whom I killed did not fully become subsumed in the Lifestream, and are instead lingering on as Thancred and Y’shtola did. Due to the way I killed Thordan, I have no doubt he is not among the ones who linger. So, I came to ask you. Do you want me to try?” 

Aymeric opens his mouth, then closes it again, resting his face in his hands. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Valerian speak so much at once, and it feels wrong to wish that he would never hear so much again. 

“Valerian,” he says, quietly. “I do not think my morals any better than the warrior of light. Less, in fact, for it is I who ordered my own father’s death. You should do what you think is right.” 

“Before coming to you, I did research. I only met so many of them before I fought them, and from what I found I suspect that Thordan only sent the truly unpleasant ones to speak to me. Many of them seemed to be earnest and sincere in their duty.” Valerian’s inflections never change, it’s comforting. “I’ve killed men like that for much less reason than that they were tempered to bring forth a primal.” 

_“Tempered?”_ Aymeric asks, hoarsely, trying to distract himself from the rest of what Valerian had said. 

“Merely being around a primal will corrupt people, let alone hosting one in their flesh. I can’t say for sure, however. Thordan likely had begun his primal plans before I ever arrived in Ishgard. I don’t know if any of his knights changed....” Valerian trails off, then continues, “I don’t ask this off you lightly, Aymeric. Even if they come back, I’d still need to check for tempering, and I might end up killing them all over again. It’s likely that extended exposure to aether will have lasting consequences for them, though I don’t know how it will manifest. I just..”

Valerian closes his eyes, and sighs.

“As the one who killed them, I didn’t think it appropriate for me to be the sole arbiter of this choice.” 

“It was me who ordered them dead, Valerian,” Aymeric says, eyes weary. “My hands, too, are soaked in blood.” 

He can see Valerian disbelieves him, just as he himself considers Valerian guiltless. 

“Then we shall do this together,” Aymeric says softly. “Bring them back, my beloved friend. And we will see the Fury’s mercy.” 

Valerian reaches out to him, clasping his own hand onto Aymeric’s shoulder. 

“Thank you, Aymeric,” he says, quietly. 

He leaves without another word.


	2. Scene Two: The Singularity Reactor, Azys Lla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : )

Touching down in the Helix airship bay, Valerian sees the fresh flowers left on the edge. A smile softens his expression, and he reaches down to place his own on the pile. So Estinien’s been here recently.

That’s good. 

He’s brought Y’shtola all the way from Idyllshire to help out with this foolish idea, but it's comforting to think there are still more forms of backup hanging around. 

Midgardsormrr will not consent for another rider, so Y’shtola pilots the mana cutter for the ride over. Once there, they have to be on guard for Garlemond soldiers, who still regularly patrol the reactor for various searches. Moving past that, they progress to the room where Valerian fought Thordan and His Knights Twelve. 

The elementals of Azys Lla are all of lightning. It’s a good thing, then, that Valerians conjury staff of choice is a lightning rod, forged from his battle with Ramuh. The lightning in the air whispers to him and Y’shtola, telling him for foreigners, of ice in this place of heat and circuits.   
And Valerian can feel it. It’s cold in here, colder than it was when he fought. 

... It’s more than he thought he’d get. 

Maybe Halone has not yet taken them to her halls. 

With Y’shtola’s aid, Valerian reaches out to the one member of the Heaven’s Ward. who’s face he’ll never be able to forget. 

The man who killed Haurchefaunt Greystone. 

Zephirin de Valhourdin, The Just. 

Zephirin comes from the lightstream as naked as the day he was born, and so what he will later strive every day to conceal from the people of Ishgard is laid bare before Valerian. Dragon Scales, beautiful, crystalline, white as his armour once was. They follow his spine, extend down his arms, glisten from his neck. 

His face is completely unchanged, save for the expected. His blue eyes have turned silver. 

On the verge of collapse, Valerian tells him

“Ser Zephirin. I don’t.. Know the men of the Heaven’s Ward, though I killed them. I don’t remember their faces, I don’t know who they loved, or who would love them enough to bring them back.”

He crouches down to hold zephirin’s hand, his other hand still firmly grasping hold of his staff. “But you know that. Or at least, you should. Tell them to come back. Or they’ll be lost forever.” 

Valerian has never prayed to Halone before. 

It makes him smile. 

“Trust in the Fury, Ser Zephirin. I promise you, there are no false gods here.” 

He doesn’t know if the man can hear him. He looked up his title, before coming out here, but he’s forgotten it again. He hadn’t known Zephirin was 29, only a year older than him. He didn’t know that he won his first tourney at 15, or that the weapon he used was so looked down on. 

He doesn’t know why Zephirin’s aim had to be so good. 

“_Listen_ to me,” Hear think feel know. 

And the knight.. Answers. 

“Ser Vellguine!” Zephirin’s voice is low, and rough with disuse. He coughs after speaking. “Ser Charibert. Ser Adelphel. Ser Grinnaux. Ser Paulicrain. Ser Haumeric. Ser Guerrique. Ser Hermenost. Ser Noudenet. Ser Janlenoux. Ser Ignasse.” His voice grew after every call, even as his eyes remained confused and glazed, flicking about his surroundings. “I.. order you. As the Archimandrite.. To come forth.” 

Silence. 

Valerian looked to Y’shtola, who’s senses with aether were far beyond what most could ever see. Her eyes met his, and she nodded. Valerian nodded in turn, and closed his eyes, devoting everything he had to this task-- channeling the power of the elements. 

Slowly, another shape began to take form. Valerian bit his lip, already feeling the strain. He.. wasn’t sure he could manage 10 more times of this. The lightning atop his staff crackled and popped alongside Y’shtola’s tree branch, as--

The second knight falls to the floor. Valerian’s eyes open, and then widen. 

This one.. Did not escape as easily as Ser Zephirin. His silver eyes have the slit pupil of a dragon’s eyes.. His teeth have sharpened, and cut against his mouth as he opens it-- his hands are warped into something more akin to a claw, with a crystal red talon protruding from each finger. 

“Ser Adelphel,” the man spits out, surprise and horror flitting across his face as he speaks. “Reporting in.” 

Valerian.. Remembers him, vaguely. From the Vault? Wait..he gives up. He can’t remember. The Vault is a long blur to him, made vague by Charibert’s endless berations until all he can truly recall is..

This isn’t the time to think of that. Valerian can feel another attempting to answer from beyond the Lifestream. The newest knight emerges close behind Adelphel, his blue hair falling in a tangled mess around his face. A scar that stretches across his face from forehead to cheekbone fills with glimmering white light that leaks into his right eye, rendering it blind. The first thing out of his mouth is a loud, echoing scream as he pitches forward, unaccustomed to the weight of the...tail he now bears. The scream, itself, sounded less human than it should have. 

“Ser Janlenoux,” the knight rasps out, and then stops short, startled by his changed voice. “Reporting.” 

Valerian can feel another one reaching out to him, and his hand shakes on his staff. This.. would not have been taxing if he had the elder seedseer herself aiding him. As it is, he has much less support than that. 

Nevertheless.. As Y’shtola stands, so does he. 

“Can you keep going, Valerian?” Her voice is shaking as well, but Y’shtola is a master at her craft. And, like Valerian, willing to push far beyond her limits. 

The next knight materializes. This one has short, cropped dark hair, and makes a choked, wheezing noise as he collapses onto the metal floor. His hands grasp desperately at his throat, where light blue ice crystals like long fingers wrap around his neck, head, and upper body forming odd ridges and beautiful patterns of ice all over his skin. He hacks, and coughs up yet more ice crystals from within his throat. Even his teeth seem to have changed into approximations of what they ‘should’ be, their color the same ice blue as his new adornments. They chatter as he attempts to speak. 

“S-ser Haumeric-ric-c,” He forces out. “I-I’m.. H-here?” 

His eyes gaze out, unseeing. Looking closer, Valerian thinks the ice crystals have followed the lines of tear tracks, flowing from his blind eyes to the base of his cheeks. 

Valerian feels the other hand in his tighten to a painful degree, and realizes that Zephirin had never.. Let go. The knight has no eyes for him, though, instead gazing in both relief and desolation at his brethren. 

“Ser Zephirin.” It’s Y’shtola who prompts him this time. “This does not appear to be all of your knights. Can you call again?” 

Zephirin wrenches his gaze away from his fellow knights, looking at her with exhausted, despairing eyes. 

“My lady.” His voice is hoarse. “Those loyal to me.. Have already responded.” 

So that’s how it was. 

“I don’t care how loyal they are to you,” Valerian points out. “What matters is your loyalty to them.” 

“So this is how you judge me, Warrior of Light.” Zephirin seems to have attempted to infuse malice into his voice, but all Valerian can hear is the deep tiredness, and a trace of fear. 

“I already did that, Ser Zephirin.” He’s killed better men for less reason. “At least try one more time.” 

Zephirin hesitates. 

“I--” 

“He’s too much of a coward.” A familiar voice interrupts whatever Zephirin was about to say. Valerian’s head jerks back, surprised to hear that particular cadence here, of all places. 

“_Estinien?_” Valerian’s gaze catches on the long, silver hair of the former Azure Dragoon, so newly escaped from his infirmary bed. 

Estinien smirks at him, and then continues talking. 

“Like I was saying, he’s too much of a coward. A well trained dog that cowers when it’s let off it’s leash. Ser Zephirin the Just, indeed. I bet he couldn’t even take a piss without the Archbishop’s say so. I came here because I thought he might have been enthralled by that delusional wreck, and I wanted my shot at killing him. But just look at him, Valerian. I doubt a single one of these pieces of dragonshit needed the extra push to cull a few civilians for the greater cause.” 

“I’m not saving them because they’re good,” Valerian sighs. “I’m saving them because I can.” Though how many he could manage before he collapsed was a different question entirely. Unlike black magic, which he could use for as long as he was willing to risk exposing himself to void (a very long time) white magic.. Needed more care on his part. 

“I swear, you’re more stubborn than Aymeric and Haurchefant combined.” Estinien scowled at him. 

“Thank you.” 

Valerian’s eyes fell back on Zephirin, who seemed to have been rendered mute. An unusual state, for him. 

“I’ll try, then.” Valerian takes his hand from Zephirin, and pulls a crumpled piece of parchment from his robe. It’s got names and descriptions of all of the knights, written in Aymeric’s beautiful handwriting. He lets his voice slip back into it’s rarely used childhood accent, away from Thanalan’s typical butchery of Elezen names. 

“Ser Vellguine de Bourbagne.” Now, even Y’shtola is staring at him. “You who wielded the Destroyer’s Stead, which shed my blood. Will you answer?” 

Nothing. 

“Ser Paulecrain de Fainoully.” The other knights are starting to stare at him, too. “Wielder of Winter, who challenged my young friend to a duel on charges of heresy you knew to be false. Will you answer?” 

Nothing. 

“Ser Hermenost de la Treaumille.” 

Nothing. 

“Ser Noudenet..” 

Nothing. 

Valerian takes a glance at the names left on his list, and sighs. 

“Ser Grinnaux de Dzemael.” This man, he doesn’t regret killing. “Wielder of Stampede, who fought against me not once, not twice, but three times. In the Tribunal. In the Vault. And here, in the Singularity Reactor. And each time, you lost. Prove me wrong, Ser Grinnaux. Or linger here forever.” 

He feels the materialization yank aether from him, viscous and angry as it surges towards its yearned for mortal form. Ser Grinnaux snarls as he appears, his eyes churning with red, bright rage. Crimson glowing crystal veins, the type that had covered Estinien, stretch across his flesh like cracks revealing a flow of lava below his skin. All of that, however, is window dressing when compared with the curling horns that protrud from his head. 

“_Warrior of Light!_” He bellows. “I hear you!” 

But just like Haumeric, he cannot see Valerian, or anything at all. 

One of the other knights groans. Valerian can barely here the muttered “Not him..” 

“Ser Ignasse de Vessnaint.” 

Nothing. 

“Ser Guerrique de Montrohain.” 

He isn’t expecting anything, so this one takes him by surprise. The aether buckles around him as a sixth knight joins the party. Guerrique’s silver hair fall in front of his eyes as he stares around, dazed. Bony crystal ridges protrude from his shoulders, arms and legs, and his mouth opens and closes around the two large fangs that show from his lower lip. 

“What--” 

“Ser Charibert de Leusignac.” Valerian already knows, even as he speaks the last name, that this one can hear him. “Torturer. Murderer. Inquisitor. You who wield the flames against the people of Ishgard, and who sought to burn me for sins I will never acknowledge nor regret. Wielder of Widowbreaker, which I broke while you held it. Cursed be your name, for you can hear me. Are you ready to face Halone?” 

It feels like a clawed hand yanks the aether from Valerian’s own guts, causing him to stagger and fall to the ground, Estinien’s hand on his collar the only thing stopping him from hitting the ground face first. 

Charibert is--

Valerian’s eyes widen, while Estinien bursts into unkind laughter behind him. His hands are clawed, each finger ending in a dark red talon. More crystal scales and protrusions follow his arms all the way to the shoulder.. And down his back.. And to his tail..and to his legs, and to his feet, which, too, are clawed and taloned. His eyes are slit, and his teeth sharpened. 

It’s his final, agonized cry Valerian hears as he gives in to the burden, and drops unconscious.


	3. Scene Three: Helix, Azys Lla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It dawns on me that i have not described my wol.
> 
> His name is Valerian Caligorne; he is a Duskwight Elezen; hes been having a rough time.

It’s difficult to look like an esteemed noble born from the line of the knights of Thordan while only wearing a basic woolen blanket, but the sneer certainly helps. At least, Zephirin hopes it does. After the Warrior of Light had fallen, taken down by his achievement of yet another miracle, the Azure Dragoon, had stopped laughing, instead choosing to snarl and bite at whomever approached. He had thought the man Ser Aymeric’s lapdog alone, but it seemed the warrior of light was skilled in more than just his way with magic. 

Zephirin suppresses another shudder. The w-- Caligorne had blasted his way through the facility towards them, fire and ice raining from his staff with skill that made Ser Charibert look pinched with envy. Two Ascians, felled by one man alone.. It was ridiculous, and he’d been eager to make their entrance early. To prove to Caligorne that it was the knights of the Holy See who could stand against such abhorrent foes. To uphold their purpose. 

An ugly thought creeps in. Had he been enthralled, then?

The Scion conjurer had refused to let them be taken to the airship until she could confirm that they were not.. ‘Tempered’. With the Azure Dragoon standing right behind her, looking all too happy to prove his steel against flesh. 

Even if he had been enthralled... the Scion did not see what he saw, when it was 13 false gods against one mortal. 

He had heard the archbishop's final cry. To instill fear in the fearless, was that who Caligorne was? To have knights that refused their own leader answer to his mockery, instead. 

If _Zephirin_ were the Warrior of Light, he would not have brought them back. 

_“Stop looking at me!”_

Zephirin’s spiral of self pity is interrupted by a strident scream from Ser Charibert, as the former inquisitor throws up a wall of flame, pushing the ishgardian chirruegens stumbling back. The flame can’t hide him, though. Even it now burns crimson red, the same color of his new.. Additions. 

“Just leave him,” orders the Scion conjurer. “If Valerian is so bent on his survival, he can heal him when he wakes up. No one else should risk getting close.” Her eyes, which seem to be silver-blind, flicker over to look at him. 

Zephirin fights down the same words that Charibert had just shouted. He won’t lose his dignity like that. Even so, he can’t resist the urge to check that his.. His scales.. Remain hidden. 

It feels like she can see through every covering he wraps around himself. 

“My name,” she continues, “Is Y’shtola, of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Valerian recently participated in the ceremony that pulled me back from the Lifestream, which I had attempted to teleport through using an extremely dangerous spell. It is likely that which inspired Valerian to think he could do the same here.” 

It’s Ser Guerrique who speaks up first, looking away from the lady healer who was trying to wrap a bandage over the crystal ridge on his arm. 

“No offense, Lady Y’shtola, but did he..” The knight gestures at himself. At his new fangs. “Sabotage it, by any chance?” 

Her eyes narrow. 

“On the contrary, Ser. He seems to have overtaxed himself severely. To answer the question you are _actually_ asking, however, the answer seems to come from the fuel source for the primal Thordin-- that is, the eye of Nidhogg.” 

Zephirin’s stomach lurches. 

“Blood of Thordin, who ate of the dragon Rastoklr. Blood of Thordin, who need but one sip of dragon blood to become what they despise. Blood of Thordin... who feasted on the aether of a dragon’s eye.” The Azure Dragoon’s eyes lose focus, as he stares out at a distant part of Azyz Lla. 

“To conclude,” Y’shtola takes the reins of the conversation back. “The surprising thing isn’t the dragonic features, but instead how human you all remain. I have no idea how Valerian managed it.” 

He has no idea why Caligorne did any of this. He’d-- he’d killed his friend. 

Zephirin gnashes his teeth, not feeling the blood begin to fill his mouth. He’d killed the bastard son of House Fortemps, like he should have killed the bastard son of--

He’d been reprimanded for his failure to wound the warrior of light by the Archbishop. But the Ascians had laughed. The .. male one, had told him he’d done well. Wounds of the flesh are nothing to one blessed by Hydalean. Only wounds of the soul are permanent. 

He’d thought the first sentence to be hyperbole, and the second nothing but a mockery that he and his brethren of the Heaven’s Ward lacked the immortality of the Ascians. Inside of him, it feels like his very self was unraveled, then braided back together by a child with fat fingers. He thinks there are holes inside of him, that bleed with Nidhogg’s laughter. 

He thinks Caligorne knew this would happen. It’s very like him, to show vengeance through mercy. 

“How..” He has to restart the sentence. A knight must always speak in sureties. “We will return to Ishgard, soon.” 

Ser Adelphel sends him a horrified glance. Dzmael attempts the same, with less success due to lacking... sight. “No the fuck we won’t,” He blusters. There is a very real terror, wafting off him. “My family won’t stand for-- I mean,” He shakes his head, frustrated. His horns catch the glint of the sun. “I’ll be disinherited. For heresy.” 

“I can’t bring this down on my house,” Adelphel agrees, quietly. “We’re-- They’re a lesser house, they can’t take the damage to their reputation.” 

“It’s the same with me,” says Janelnoux. “My family is pledged to House Durendaire, they’ll have to cut ties.” 

Zephirin casts about the other knights for more disagreements, but they all look away from him. If there’s more trouble, they don’t want to share it with him. 

He wants to assure them that the Heaven’s Ward is above such matters. But-- a terrible thought dawns on him. 

“Lady Y’shtola,” he says, carefully ignoring the sharp grin on the Azure Dragoon’s face. “Can you tell me what has happened to the governing of Ishgard in our.. Absence.” 

She smiles at him. It gives the Dragoon a run for his money. 

“I am informed that as per the regulations within the Holy See, the commander of the Temple Knights is in charge until a new Archbishop can be selected. However, given the circumstances of the Holy See concealing so much information, there’s a debate over whether a new Archbishop should be elected at all.” 

“Aymeric’s in charge.” summarizes the Dragoon. 

Zephirin feels a bit more of his world crumble around him. 

“Don’t worry, little lordlings,” the Dragoon says. “Aymeric’s been looking for some proper figureheads to represent the new peace treaty with the dragons. And now, you even look the part. 

Zephirin opens his mouth to retort, then closes it. 

_“Peace treaty?!?” _

It’s not just him that says that. He’d dismissed such a thing as an impossible dream. They all had. No one who was privy to the knowledge of the origin of the dragonsong war and the endless rage of the dragons would ever say such nonsense as peace. 

Yet, even knowing that truth, Y’shtola nods while the Dragoon looks away. 

“It’s been several months since you attempted to channel a primal within your flesh. Valerian didn’t have the spare time to attempt something like this until recently.” She taps her fingers against her head, turning something over in her mind. “A number of you appear to have some or all of your sight, and may have become either over or under sensitized to aether. A similar thing happened to me, so I understand. Unfortunately, it is not something that can be healed. Any magic that attempts to return you to your ‘original’ state will consider this body, which was reborn from the aether, your default.” 

Despite himself, Zephirin hunches a little at this death blow. He casts his gaze towards Haumeric, seeking a differing opinion from the preeminent conjurer. The knight attempts to look towards him, but he mistakes Zephirin’s voice, directly his eyes somewhere to the left of Zephirin. 

“She has the right of it, Ser Zephirin.” Haumeric sounds unsurprised. “With practice, I will be able to navigate through sensing the currents of aether, but I have already attempted to heal myself. The elements will not help me.” 

“What about me, then?” Grinnaux snarls. “I can’t ‘sense the aether’ like some backline cane user. Am I just stuck like this? You’re just looking for an excuse to remove me from the Heavan’s Ward, I can tell. You and _Ser Zephirin’s_ little pack of cronies. Well, I was chosen by the Archbishop himself. None of you can say that, can you. Can you!?” 

“Oh yes,” Guerrique drawls. “What did he say about you again? Oh, I remember. “If he causes trouble... we can temper him.” He laughs, then cuts himself short. “Wonder if he ever did that to me.” 

You can always trust Guerrique to ruin the mood, Zephirin thinks, desperately trying to ignore the implications of what he had just said. 

He was loyal to the Archbishop, willing to follow any order in order to achieve their goal of saving Ishgard from the Dravanian horde. There would have been no need..

He stamps down the doubt. 

“It’s likely you all were,” says Y’shtola. “Primals don’t have to.. Want to temper someone. It’s simply a byproduct of their nature to leak into everything around them. And Valerian tells me you were far more than just ‘around’ such power.” 

“But.. but _Iceheart_ wasn’t tempered when she did it! That witch did it multiple times, and she was fine!” It’s Adelphel who protests this time, his new slit pupils dilating in shock. 

“She was already wrong in the head before she ever called Shiva,” says the Dragoon, shortly. 

“She was possessed of the Echo,” says Y’shtola. “Like Valerian. It gave her some measure of protection.” 

“But--” Adelphel’s continued protests are cut short as Jannlenoux presses a hand down on his shoulder. He subsides into unhappy muttering. 

Zephirin can’t pay attention to any of this, however. His thoughts whirl, caught up in attempting to review every decision he has made since the Ascians first made their presence known. How long has he..? They had visited the Archbishop before Caligorne had ever set foot in Ishgard. Is tempering a slow, gradual process?

He doesn’t realize he’s asked the question out loud until Y’shtola answers. He thinks that, even blind, she is looking at him with pity. 

“It doesn’t work like that, Ser Zephirin. Tempering is immediate, absolute, and permanent. And if the only cure that we’ve ever found is pulling a soul back from where it had wrongly dissolved into aether, it looks like we still don’t have any type of solution.” 

Oh. 

Zephirin looks over at his knights, and some turn his way. Adelphel scowls and looks away, refusing to meet his eyes. Janlenoux stares at him with his one remaining eye, but refuses to speak. The crystal tear tracks that have frozen beneath Haumeric’s lost eyes reflect the uncertainty that the most devout of them all now faces. And then.. The ones that Caligorne saved. Grinnaux, that unpleasant ogre. Even now he blindly looks this way and that, shaking his head as if to rid himself of his new found injuries and aberrations as if they were no more than a buzzing fly. Guerrique, that obnoxious chatterbox who had followed Zephirin all the way from the Temple Knights. His mouth is set in a grim line now, interrupted by the two fangs that even his closed mouth cannot hide. 

Despite himself, Zephirn’s eyes flicker to Charibert, who still refuses to lower his barrier of fire. He doubts there will be any sanity from that corner, when a sane man would never have answered Caligorne’s challenge. 

..

Only seven of them.. 

No Archimandrite has ever lost so many under his command. Shame fills him, coiling in his throat and digging icy fingers of guilt into his ribcage. Why did he not call them? Must Caligorne perform his job, too, as he so casually performs the duties of a myriad of stations. When he and Ser Aymeric had served as the same rank within the Temple Knights, stories of the warrior of light had been nothing. What cared Ishgard for a ‘primal’ of fire.. 

There was no need for such things in Coerthas. 

Ser Aymeric had been fascinated even back then, the bastard always hungering for news of far off lands. And he’d always get it, too, from the lord of Camp Dragonhead. 

Connections were what got you to the top of the heap in Ishgard, and Ser Aymeric had always showed his off. Friends with the Lord of the western border, confidant of the Azure Dragoon, blood as blue as his decorated sheathe. They loved him in the lower city, and nobleborn women would sigh from their windows as he walked past. 

Zephirin’s new, sharp nails dig into his skin, and he flinches. No highborne will dare look at him now. If his.. If any of it is inheritable..

The Heavens’ Ward are an organization sworn to celibacy. It shouldn’t matter. Unlike many others within the Ward, he had always kept to his oath. 

“Well?” Ser Janelenoux breaks the silence. “If you’ve decided we’re not-- are no longer tempered, why are we still lingering here? Whatever we’re to face in Ishgard, I’d prefer it to Azys Lla.” His tail twists in agitation. 

Grinnaux sneers at him. Somehow, for this, he’s managed to get the facing right. 

“Isn’t it obvious? They're waiting for _him_.” 

As if on cue, Caligorne steps forward from where he’d been taken onto the airship. He looks around, face blank. Caligorne remains the darkest blue skinned elezen Zephirin has ever seen, and also the shortest. His odd, purple eyes scan past Zephirin as he takes in the scene in front of him, before disregarding all of them except for the Dragoon. 

“Will you be coming back with us?” 

Of course he will. That’s where--

“No.” 

What?

“I talked to Hraesvalgr. She has a grave in the Mists, now.” 

“Who said I was here because of that?” 

“Estinien.” Caligorne sounds like Ser Aymeric, when he’s talking to him. It makes Zephirin want to cut off his ears. Or cut out Caligorne’s tongue. 

“I’m surrounded by people who don't know when to shut their godsdamned mouths. Get lost, already. And take those knights with you.” When he calls them knights, it sounds like a direct insult to a thousand years of tradition. With that, the Azure Dragoon stalks off into Azys Lla, back ridgedly straight. 

“Talk to Tiamat!” Caligorne cups his hands and yells at him as he disappears into the mess of ugly lights. 

“Get F--” Is the last thing Zephirin can hear from him. 

Caligorne smiles fondly anyway, then turns-- still not to him, but to Y’shtola. 

“Sorry for collapsing,” he says, voice restored to the way Zephirin remembers it-- Mild, monotone. Certain. “I see you have everything well in hand.” 

“Do you now,” says Y’shtola. 

Caligorne nods. 

“Echo,” he says, vaguely apologetic. As if collapsing after achieving a miracle is an inconvenience. “It’s a.. Private matter, this time. I’ll have to discuss it with Ser Zephirin later.” 

He’d thought he’d known true fear when he died. Caligorne had-- he had fought the Ascians with thaumaturgy, called down fire and ice, used the void against its own dark masters. He had thought he was prepared. 

Not so. 

As the Archbishop became Thordan, Caligorne had.. Pulled out a book. At the time, a small part of him had been relieved. He had seen the way scholar’s fought, the way Arcanists channeled. Compared to the thaumaturgy of the Inquisition, that seemed so... weak.

Caligorne had only said one thing, the entire time. 

‘For Haurchefaunt,’ Was it. 

And he had called upon Bahamut. He had--

“Come _on, Ser_,” Guerriqe growls, pull him forward towards the airship. “Stop zoning out, already.” He had missed a chunk of conversation, it seemed. 

“There’s armour for you on board,” Caligorne says, using his staff to point to the airship’s main cabin. “And alternatives, if you find that you are unable to wear that. We will be heading back as soon as I.. have some words with Ser Charibert. I’ve linkshelled Ser Aymeric, and he stated how large the entourage he brought out for you all would depend on your preferences. Please discuss that and tell the pilot when you come to a consensus. Good day.” 

With that, he strides back to where Charibert has refused to budge, cutting off any reactions before they have the chance to form. 

Well, almost all reactions. 

“‘Good day’” Repeats Guerrique, baffled. “It’s the bloody middle of the night, isn’t it?”


	4. Scene Four: Alpha Quadrant, Azys Lla

“Ser Charibert?” Valerian calls out from outside the wall of flames the knight had chosen to surround himself with. “Can you hear me?” 

No response. 

From experience, Valerian knows that Charibert is not.. A naturally quiet man. Quite the opposite, in fact. Loud, rude, arrogant, hateful, obsessed with instilling despair.. Rumoured to have torched his own orphanage upon receiving his invitation to join the Inquisition. 

It is Valerian’s’ personal opinion that the only good Inquisitors had ex- in front of their names, and have been driven away from the church on charges of heresy. He only knew one like that, but still. Valerian had called this man back from the Lifestream. If he didn’t take responsibility.. 

“Ser Charibert,” Valerian warns. “We _will_ talk.” Raising his staff, he calls ice, freezing and smothering the ring of fire. At his will, the ice crumbles away, leaving Charibert visible. 

And what a sight he is. Covered only by a simple shift, the holes where his various crystal spikes and ridges have ripped open the cloth only serve to emphasis how much of his humanity has been lost in his return to this plane. 

“You,” He hisses, and even that has a hint of the dragon’s harsh tongue. “You did this to me!” His eyes are wide with panic, and blood trickles down his arms where it’s clear he’s clawed at himself. 

“I did,” Valerian agrees. “I killed you, and I brought you back. So? What are you going to do about it?” He’s genuinely curious. About many things, in fact. “Also, did you really burn down your orphanage?” 

Instead of answering him, Charibert screams in rage, bringing his clawed fingers together into a fist even as that causes him to break the skin of his hands. 

“Why did you even answer my call, Ser Charibert? Surely you didn’t care about what I had to say about you. When I asked around, it seems like people have been speaking about you that way for years.” 

If necessary, Valerian is going to kill him again, right here in Azys Lla. He won’t regret it. 

Finally, Charibert begins to speak. 

“An _outsider_ would never understand the calling of a Halonic Inquisitor. The taint of heresy lies over the Brume like..” His voice changes for a second, a hint of a Brume accent appearing. “Like shit in a pigsty, to use such uncouth slang.” His eyes, already crazed, take on a further glint of madness. “Ishgard must be kept pure! Her streets clean of those who would needlessly cite irrelevent texts, who would bring forbidden knowledge to light, who would consort with dragons and bring them into our very streets! Those who waver in their faith to Halone are no different from the Dravanians, and no more deserving of mercy. In Halone’s eyes, all must be cleansed!” 

“You’re wrong.” Valerian nods, then moves on. “Since I brought you back, I consider myself responsible for any harm that you deal to the people of Ishgard from now on. Since I don’t want to keep an eye on you constantly, that means I should probably kill you again. What do you think?” 

“You!” Charibert’s tongue flickers out of his mouth, long and forked. It clearly startles him, and he jerks back. He panics, covering his mouth with his hand, only to pierce his own cheeks with the tips of his talons. Blood runs down his face as he stares at Valerian, the crazed zealotry giving way to dawning horror.

“They’ll lock me away,” he finally says. “Whip me, brand me, cut me into pieces, use my skin for tomes.. Those highborn _bastards_..” The Brume accent is back in force. “The inquisition’s duty.. Is to stamp out heresy..” He stares at his hands, ridged and clawed crimson red. “I have to rise above them. I have to...” 

Flame blossoms in his hands. 

The reason thaumaturges use staves to channel their magic is a very practical one. Without it, they would burn their own hands, and freeze their fingers. Valerian had found this out as a teen, trying to light a cigarette with the snap of his fingers. He still has the scars on his hand. 

He can hear the sizzle of flesh as Charibert refuses to let go of the fire. 

“I’ll burn it away!” His face twisting, Charibert pushes even more energy into the raging flames, using his own flesh as fuel. “Sickness..” Face flushed and beaded with sweat, he drives his hand towards his heart. “Must be _purged!_.” 

Valerian makes no move to stop him. 

The flame catches Charibert’s clothing on fire, spreading quickly so that it seems as if the elezen is covered in a roaring blaze of flame. His own hands remain at his chest, trying to press the fire closer to his heart. But.. though Charibert’s clothes quickly burn to ashes, his chest, faintly covered with the scale pattern of dragon skin, remains unburnt. 

Charibert falls to his knees. 

“No..” He whispers. “No, no, no!” His hands scrape at his chest, taloned nails sending blood and crystal scales scattering around him. “I have to--” 

“Ser Charibert,” Valerian interrupts him, crossing his hands in front of his chest. “I’m sure you must know this, already. A dragon cannot be killed through fire alone.” 

“A.. dragon?” Still on his knees, Charibert gives up on tearing into himself, using his hands to instead cover his eyes. He begins to laugh, an off key, chaotic sound. On the ground in front of Valerian, he truly seems more animal than man, not unlike the Merycadian dragons of Azys Lla, who’s suffering at the hands of the Allagans had driven them to the state of mindless beasts. 

Valerian watches him patiently. 

“Your word, Ser Charibert.” 

The laughter stops. Charibert looks up at him, his hair falling down to cover his face, give the illusion of modesty that the rest of his exposed form cannot provide. 

“You want the word of a man who burnt down his own orphanage? You truly are mad, unbeliever.” 

“I don’t think you did that.” Valerian tilts his head. “Swear. On the eleventh volume of the Seventy Two articles of Halonic Polity.” 

“Of the Fury’s love will all men receive, and by the balance of Her spear will all be set free..” Charibert instincely quotes it, then snarls at Valerian. “Though what a heretic like you knows of church doctrine is clearly limited to the paltry lines the preachers in the Brume like to spout off to earn their meagre pay.” 

“I like that quote.” And he’ll be having a discussion like this with all of the newly returned knights, not just Charibert. One step at a time, though. “Please swear, Ser Charibert. Our companions are waiting on us.” 

“And what if I don’t?” 

Valerian readies his staff. 

“Then you die here.”


	5. Scene Five: Airship Landing, Ishgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new pov

He can tell they’ve arrived at Ishgard when the muffled sound of machinery in fog gives way to the whispers and bustle of gossipers in the street. He doesn’t care that on the airship, he’s too far away for them to see-- it wont stop them, any more than it will stop him from putting his fist in the face of anyone who says _anything_ to him about his ‘new look’. 

Or lack thereof. 

He’d have made Paulecrain guide him, though the Dzemael ward was just as likely to lead him into a wall for an extra round at the pub than to get him somewhere useful. Grinnaux smirks. He’d have made him pay, though. Main house outranked everything, after all. 

He was the nephew of the Count, in the end. And the Count had no children. 

Buoyed by his own words, Grinnaux straightens up. That's right, he’s too valuable to be thrown away by House Dzemael! They need him. 

“My dear friend!” Borel’s joyous exclamation breaks through his internal thoughts, and he swings his head in that direction, feeling the weight of his horns like an unremovable helmet. Grinnaux scowls. Nothing good ever comes from hearing the Temple Knight Commander in such high spirits. “I see you have returned successful from your mission.” 

“Ser Aymeric.” That wretched elezen Caligorne greets him in return, and they begin a long and very boring back and forth. Grinnaux rolled his eyes, his fingers itching for his axe-- or any axe, he wasn’t picky. Behind him, Guerrique cracks his knuckles loudly. If he opens his mouth as well, Grinnaux is going to put his fist through it. 

It’s all over exaggeration, what Caligorne and the other panicking sissies have been saying about being _tempered_. Grinnaux thinks their too clever for their own good. He knows what he’s about, and nothing he’s done since joining-- since being chosen to join the Heaven’s Ward says otherwise. 

He just needs another shot at Caligorne. Away from all this primal bullshit. So what if he’s blind now? He knows the weakness of spellcasters better than anyone. Get close. Make it so that they can't breathe through the blood coming out of their face, hit the air straight out of their lungs. Go for the hands: break a finger, or five. 

Teach them their place, as his father used to say. 

He’s startled out of his planning by an all too familiar voice. But.. the words..

“My deepest apologies, Lord Borel,” He can hear his uncle, the count, saying. “But House Dzemael doesn’t have a son of that name.” 

What..?

There’s a roaring in his ears. He steps forward, dressed in the armour supplied to them. From Adelphel’s comments, he knows its their own spare armour sets, taken from the Vault. 

A sea of whispers starts spreading the moment he took that first step. How many people did that damnable Commander _bring?_

“Hello, uncle.” He doesn’t know which direction to bow, so he doesn’t. “I have returned.” The whispers cut out, leaving his voice to echo in the silence. 

“Lord Dzemael--” Borel interjects, but falls silent. 

“Who are you?” His uncle’s cold irritation is unmistakable. “I only have one nephew. And he certainly doesn’t look like... you.” 

He almost wishes the whispers would return. Under the red crystal veins he can still feel on his skin, Grinnaux’s face is burning, his ears and neck hot with-- with shame. At least he doesn’t have to see this, this nightmare. His hands clench into fists. How could.. How could this happen?

On Azys Lla he’d thrown the possibility out, but that was just scare tactics. That could happen to Janneloux or Adelphel, knight of lesser status, from lesser houses. It wasn’t something that would happen to him. 

His uncle is... Still talking. 

“Speaking of my nephew, Lord Borel. Archombadin has newly graduated from the Scholasticate with _highest_ honors....” Grinnaux refuses to listen to any more. He lashes out at random, feeling relief as his hand connects with someone. 

“You,” he says, grimmly. “Get me out of here.” 

He realizes what the height of the shoulder means too late. 

“Of course,” says Caligorne. He seems as unbothered as always. Of course he is, this has nothing to do with him! He’s only the person that dragged him back from his grave to face this public humiliation! “When I linkshelled Ser Aymeric earlier, he told me he only planned on contacting the personal families of the people involved. It seems.. Some of them chose to share that information.” 

“Or there’s a leak in the Temple Knights,” Zephirin interjects. 

Grinnaux snorts. As if, not when his uncle so clearly meant for it to be-- public. 

“As if, Zephirin. Don’t stick your nose into my business too far, or I’ll cut it off.” He’s never been this rude to the Archimandrite before. It feels good. 

“Lord Dzemael’s statement is all of our businesses now,” Haumeric says. “In terms of precedent, at the very least.” It takes a second for Grinnaux to realize what he means, and then he feels a spread of relief flow through him. 

“Wanna bet which one of you are next?” He jeers. 

If Paulecrain were here, he’d have known how to spin up the bet. He was always good at putting the right pressure here and there, so that everyone knew where to line up. 

He’s not here, though. He’s dead. 

“There’s no need to guess,” says a tired voice Grinnaux tags as Janlenoux. It’s distinctive now, because he can’t talk without sounding like he’s choking on glass. “House Duredaire is ever a ‘friend’ of House Dzemael. I imagine they simply didn’t wish to come in person.” 

For perhaps the first time in his life, Grinnaux feels a surge of jealousy towards his lesserborn brethren. 

“Cowards,” he sneers. He lifts his fists, and lunges forward, ready to show at least one person who exactly he still is

A cold hand catches his wrist.

“Ser Grinnaux,” Caligorne says. There’s no inflection in his voice, but that doesn’t stop Grinnaux from imagining the smug look on his stupid face. “Have care.” 

A scene flashes through Grinnaux’s head, of him helping to carry the casket of the first Azure Dragoon. The Archbishop had said-- you are Thordan’s knights reborn, carrying your fallen comrade, Haldrath. Your name is Sylvestre de Dzemael, founder of House Dzemael, guardian of Ishgard. You yearn only for Thordan’s return to the empty throne, and I have come. Be blessed, children of Halone. 

Be blessed, for Ishgard’s saviors have returned!

He’d thought that was... normal? _Him?_ How could any of them.. 

Grinnaux rips his hand away from Caligorne’s grip. It’s.. a bit harder than he’d expected. That elezen clearly does more than twirl a staff. 

He opens his mouth to tell Caligorne exactly what he thinks of him, only to feel something cold and metal pressed into his palm. 

“It’s a cane, for navigation.” Grinnaux remembers Caligorne as being the type of person who spoke almost completely through his odd, purple eyes. It hadn’t mattered until he couldn’t see them. Is he fucking with him, right now? It dawns on him that he’ll never be able to tell. 

And.. Grinnaux takes stock of the knights who came back. No one he can ask. Adelphel and Janneloux aren’t worth talking to, and Haumeric can’t see either. Guerriqe would lie to him for kicks. Charibert hasn’t spoken a single word since Caligorne brought him back to the airship stark naked and still smoking. That just leaves.... Zephirin, their most valued leader. 

Hah. 

Who’d listen to him, when he’d lead them into ruin?

Grinnaux’s hand clenches around the cane. 

“Ser Haumeric, I also brought you one.” It’s the same bland intonation. Damn you, Caligorne. 

“My thanks, Ser Caligorne.” Haumeric’s response comes readily. What a bootlicker. 

Grinnuax tenses as he hears the click of boots approaching. It occurs to him only now that he hadn’t even heard Caligorne approach. 

“Honored Sers,” Borel, the blue bastard, greets them. “I must ask your pardon for the manner in which you made your entrance to your own home. Understand that neither you nor I wished for this type of spectacle.” His voice, the same hoarse tones that it’s always had, grates against Grinnaux’s ear. “Moving beyond this, however, your quarters remain open within the Vault--”

“You think they’ll let us back in _there?_” Adelphel blurts out, scorn dripping from his voice. “I’ve sentenced trials for people on charges of heresy far less blatantant than..” He hesitates, not quite willing to voice it. “For letting dragonic iconography on holy ground.” 

Grinnaux hears soft laughter from behind him, and wildly wonders who it

“Is something _funny_, Caligorne?” Zephirin finally adds his voice to the conversation. 

“Much has changed in your absence,” says Borel, amusement curling through his arrogant, controlled tone. “As part of our peace treaty with the Dravinians, the inquisition is having to redo their laws on what condones... heresy. So to speak. In fact, I’m hoping that having such heroes of our nation back, as it were, will help with the transition.” 

Grinnaux thinks he is going to be hearing the overlay of Caligorne’s soft laughter with Charibert’s explosive, cacking hysterics in his nightmares.


	6. Scene Six: Saint Reymanaud's Cathedral, Ishgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark Knight Questline spoilers through 56.

Zephirin kneels in front of the statue of Halone, eyes closed in silent prayer. It has been weeks now, since he’d returned from that awful Allagan hell, Azys Lla, and walked back among those with mortal flesh to contain their many flaws and weaknesses. 

Unlike many of his companions, his old armour still fit, and hid the cracks and markings in his skin and soul like it had so long concealed his loss of self to the cruel, all consuming mark of primal servitude. 

As Archimandrite of the Heaven’s Ward, his first duty was to the Archbishop. His second, only to Halone herself. There was no other authority, and no higher calling. No greater honor. 

No greater shame then to break both oaths. 

It’s far after midnight, and even the priest who was expected to remain had left-- perhaps trusting the cathedral to Zephirin, perhaps because the man simply didn’t want to be alone with a revenant. He can feel the chill seep through his knees. 

Please, Halone. Point your unyielding spear towards my future, show me how I’m meant to go on.. 

He mouths the words, too cowardly to speak them out loud. 

Please, please, _please_... 

He hears the distant grind of the door open behind him, and a flurry of ice and snow blows in with whomever has come to the Saint Reymanaud’s at such an awful hour. The heavy clank of an armoured boot sound on stone, closer and closer until it stops. 

“The cathedral is closed.” Zephirin opens his mouth, feeling as if his voice itself has been iced over like an untended hinge. The scales along his spine prickle. 

He receives no reply. 

Unable to concentrate, Zephirin opens his eyes, glancing behind him at--

A plain, unmarked great sword hangs on his back. The armour is tattered yet functional, dark cloth and dark metal covering the body as that distinctive helm hides the face. 

Zephirin’s mind goes blank. 

“Fray....?” It’s a quiet, tentative sound. Even saying his name in front of Halone feels wrong. Fray hates churches, he has since.. 

.. 

_“Threw his body in the Brume,”_ He remembers, distantly. _Good riddance to bad rubbish. The Fury didn’t want him anymore._

He doesn’t rise from his knees. Who is he to deny a spectre his due.

He hears the clank of metal as the helmet is removed, and wrath runs through him like an endless, dark river.

_“You!”_ He snarls. “How dare you wear his armour!” 

“It’s mine now,” says Valerian Caligorne, his flat cadence oddly similar to Fray’s harsh tones. Quietly glowing in the middle of his chest is... a soulstone, so dark red that it might as well be black. Fray’s soulstone. 

Caligorne sits down on the bench closest to Zephirin. 

“It’s still heresy to be a dark knight in Ishgard,” Zephirin says blankly, feeling like his grip on reality is slipping. 

“I know,” says Caligorne. He doesn’t sound worried. 

It makes Zephirin want to laugh, suddenly. He knows, does he? That’s right, the Heaven’s Ward had already attempted to trial Caligorne for heresy. There’s no one in Ishgard who could win against him in a Trial. And he’s not like Fray, isolated and unwilling to ask for help. Caligorne has people who will make sure he keeps his weapon. 

Zephirin doesn’t know what to do. He feels the gaze of Halone on him, as he consorts with an indifferent heretic within her own sacred ground. What is his duty now?

“Fray must have.. Spoken about me.” Shame prickles through him in a hot rush as he even speaks the words. “Nothing good, undoubtedly.” 

“No, he never mentioned you.” 

Somehow, that hurts more. 

“Then..” Zephirin trails off. It’s difficult to keep his poise, like this. It barely seems worth it. 

“I said before that I saw you within the Echo.” 

Cold terror makes the anger and shame in his veins all freeze, locking his muscles into place, denying him breath. This is his punishment. That his stranger who hates him for what he has done will recount his sins before Her. 

Zephirin bows his head even further, a long healed bite on his neck burning with the waves of heat that decorate his cheekbones. 

“Come here.” 

What?

“Or stay there, it’s fine.” Caligorne gets up, coming forward so that he’s standing beside Zephirin. As short as he is, he’s still taller than Fray. It makes Zephirin feel strange to remain kneeling, but he feels it would be admitting.. Something, if he stood up now. 

Caligorne’s hand drops down to rest on Zephirin’s shoulder. It makes his scales itch. 

“Listen to me,” he says, voice dropping even further. Reddish black flames begin to curl around his form, transforming the place where he stands into a window to an unknown abyss. “Listen to _us._” 

Fray had done this to him once before, in a moment of intimacy so rare that Zephirin had thought it more likely to have been a strange dream he’d been infected with, a hallucination brought on by seeing the knight in a distant corner of the street, always watching him, judging him. It had felt like being burned alive, only to find that his lungs were full of icy water that caused him to drown while still tied to the pyre. 

This isn’t like that at all. 

Around Caligorne, the darkness is gentle and soothing, tinged with endless tragedy and the taste of blood. He can hear-- singing, a lonely, damning hymn from a voice so familiar to him that he feels like he’s known it his entire life. 

And weeping. He can hear that, too. 

_You took him from us_, a voice whispers in his ear. It’s Caligorne’s voice, but it is so clearly not him.. The warrior of light’s voice doesn’t carry emotions like this. Even when he killed Zephirin, he didn’t rage, even when Greystone died he did not cry, even when 

_Oathbreaker_, a different voice says. A caustic one, filled with disappointment. 

_He was ours! Ours to love! _

_Bootlicker. Who do you obey now, heh. _

**Give him back**

The voice ends in a vicious scream of pure rage, knifing through Zephirin and blasting in his ears. He staggers, collapsing on the floor of the church. His shoulder falls away from Caligorne’s hand, ending the communion. 

Zephirin can hear his own shaky breathes echo off the stone floor. He makes no move to get back up.

Quietly, Caligorne sits down beside him on the floor. 

“What did you hear?” He asks, in his normal, even tones. “I don’t do that very often.” 

It hurts to speak, like it was his own throat that scream came out of. 

“I...” 

Zephirin pushes himself back up to a sitting position. This isn’t something he wants to say while sprawled on the ground.

“I didn’t mean to kill him.” 

Pain flickers through Caligorne’s eyes, but it’s numb, accepting.

“If I’d taken that spear, I’d have died.” Caligorne leans back against the bottom of the wooden pew, eyes drifting upwards to Halone. “Hydelain would have been able to shield me. But.. to prove my worth, Midgardsormrr did deny me her blessing. I didn’t regain it until I came to the heart of Azys Lla.” 

No wonder the Ascians had been so confident. And so cruelly defeated. 

The more Zephirin struggles to find words, any words that will not sound false and awful coming from him, the more he finds all his platitudes to himself ring with that same hollow note. In his life his sins were innumerable, countless things. But to serve as the Heaven’s Ward was to serve a higher cause. He had brushed aside all doubts, for a Knight of the Round has no weaknesses, no failings. As the Archbishop is the will of the Fury, so are the knights her Spear. Unwavering, merciless, without hesitation. 

“I had to explain to Lord Fortemps why I brought you back.” Every dispassionate word is a blow. “Artoriel wants to trial you for assassination. He asked if I would champion him, should he demand the Tribunal take his case.” 

“So I’m to fight you, then.” Zephirin finds some small measure of comfort in that.

“No, I refused.” 

Sometimes, he sounds too much like Fray. 

“I consider Thordan responsible, not you. I don’t blame swords for their masters.” Caligorne turns his head to face him. His gaze is hollow and empty, like a corpse. “Most people don’t share my opinion, of course.” 

“_You_ don’t share that opinion,” Zephirin blurts out. 

Rage flashes behind Caligorne’s eyes, but nothing else changes. 

“No, I suppose not. Have a good evening, Ser Zephirin. I have somewhere I’d like you to accompany me to, tomorrow.” He rises from his seat on the stone floor, cold and graceful. “Take care.” He puts the helmet back on before he leaves. 

The fear presses into Zephirin, along with bitter shame. He knows he’d lose a duel against Caligorne but... there’s nothing left for him, not really. Dying in a Trial is a mark of sin-- a sign that Halone has turned her gaze from you. It’s likely his body would be tossed in the streets, like Fray’s was. 

Those disgusted words flash through his head. _Oathbreaker_. He knows Fray died in a trial defending a girl with dragon blood. 

He wonders if Fray would have defended him. 

Zephirin shakes his head at his own folly. Of course not, as Caligorne was so fond of saying. He would’ve expected him to win his own trial. Zephirin is the best of the best. 

He stays in the cathedral til morning, still hearing both the scream and the song at the heart of the warrior of light.


	7. Scene Seven: Falcon's Nest, Coerthas Western Highlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still going!

Charibert stands in the main square of Falcon’s Nest, staring up at the heretic sigil commissioned by the Lord Commander with horror. It’s freshly cleaned and polished, showing that at least one person here in this forsaken camp is more invested in that sign of heretic worship than in keeping slippery spots of frozen ice off the ground where someone could slip on them. 

Beneath the heavy robes he wears, Charibert feels his talons find purchase in the ice patch, and his face twists in disgust. He shouldn’t have come here, no matter what. Caligorne may have won over the hearts of the common folk of Ishgard, but he knew what that elezen was like. 

Cold, indifferent, ruthless. 

_Like Halone_

Charibert turns back to walk towards the nearest chocobo handler. He has no business being out here. It would be best to return to Ishgard. Bundling his hands within the sleeves of his robe, he begins his address. The handler appears occupied with another customer, but it’s no matter. 

“Excuse me, I--” 

“Can’t you see I’m busy,” A familiar voice bites from under a drab, enfolding woolen cape. “Did no one ever teach you to mind your-- oh, it’s you.” Ser Adelphel’s slit eyes narrow under his robe. “I didn’t you of all people would answer such an invitation. Ugh, I thought it would just be Janlenoux who actually decided to come.” 

They had grown much more blatant in their violations of Halone’s oath, after their return. Bile rose in his throat at the thought. He licks his lips, hating the flicker of his tongue. 

“I decided to come, and I decided to go,” Charibert says, stiffly. “So--”

“Oh, it’s Charibert.” Janlenoux walks up besides Adelphel, the glowing scar and silver eye covered by thick white bandaging, tail tucked away beneath his lumpy robe. He’s holding a muffin tin. “Want one?” 

_“No.”_

“I’d like one.” Caligorne’s voice cuts through Charibert’s dismal mood with ease, replacing it with a prickling, awful nausea. “And so would Ser Zephirin.” 

“I don’t want one.” Zephirin looked like he immediately regretted speaking the minute the words came out of his mouth. Charibert knew himself to be doing poorly, but it was... startling, to see the Archimandrite be willing to show his face in public while so clearly having not slept the night before. The bags around his eyes are heavy, and the whites are closer to red. 

Caligorne, of course, looks the same as ever. Short, shorter than Zephirin, with his dusky blue skin making him stand out as a novelty no matter where he goes. He wears the sigil of House Fortemps proudly, on a ring on his finger, on a band around his neck. He’s dyed his hair again, replacing the white highlights through his purple hair with bright magenta. 

Everyone in this Fury forsaken town keeps trying to get a little closer, in order to catch a glimpse of him. 

“Thank you all for coming,” says Caligorne, light and unconcerned, like receiving a written invitation from him hadn’t made Charibert nearly lose control and burn his own hands again. “It seems Ser Grinnaux and Ser Guerrique couldn’t make it. Ser Haumeric sent me a letter earlier informing me that it wasn’t a good time to leave the Scholasticate, so he couldn’t be here.” 

...

Why hadn’t _he_ done that?

Caligorne finally seems to notice the many eyes that are on them. 

“... I can continue this outside of town, I think. This way.” 

They reconvene some distance from the main gates. 

“Right. Sorry about that. The reason I called you here is about the draconic manifestations all of you had upon exiting the lifestream.” 

Charibert hates the way the Warrior of Light speaks. The scales on his cheeks glow a brighter red against his skin. 

“After leaving you all, I consulted with a friend of mine whose daughter had a related issue.” Beside Caligorne, Zephirin stiffens and stares at him. Does he know something.. ? “This isn’t to find a cure, just to clarify. I just think it’s important to make introductions.” 

“Where are you taking us, Caligorne?” Zephirin’s voice sounds awful. Charibert knows the tone from his interrogation sessions, of course. But had he spent the entire night just...Screaming?

“To Anyx Trine.” 

A baffled silence follows that announcement. 

Caligorne seems to realize his mistake. 

“Ah. That is, I’m taking you to speak with Vidofnir, of Hraesvlgr’s line.” 

An ancient dragon. 

Charibert has gone into the field against dragons, of course. He’s a member of the Heaven’s Ward, the greatest, most talented knights of Ishgard. His skill with fire is unsurpassed in the Holy See. 

His eyes flicker to Caligorne’s staff. 

“I don’t think that is a good idea,” says Zephirin, making an uncharacteristic understatement. “We are all dragon slayers here.” 

“So am I,” says Caligorne. His words fall like boulders. “So was Estinien. And Aymeric, when he went there to negotiate.” He pushes their noble lord commanders buttons so easily that Charibert is positive he planned this speech in advance. 

A muscle in Zephirin’s face keeps jumping. 

“And how long do you think this... journey, is going to take?” 

Caligorne tilts his head. 

“Not more than a weeks journey, probably. Unless once we get there the Gnath have summoned Ravana again. Then it will be a bit longer.” 

Charibert cannot stop his mind from imagining a different place, with those same words. 

_Unless they’ve summoned Thordan. Then it will be a bit longer._

He feels the crack of his staff and ribs breaking all over again. 

“Caligorne,” Adelphel starts. “This is a lunatic plan.” 

“Call me Valerian, everyone does. When I first did this trip, I also thought it was a bad idea. But things change with familiarity, I suppose. But more importantly, dragons have a different method of gathering and channeling aether than the mortal races. I think many of your current difficulties really need to be addressed through asking a dragon.” 

There are so many things wrong with what Caligorne just said Charibert could write a new doctrine just to condemn it. 

“What if we don’t want to go.” When Adelphel says it like that it seems childish, petulant. 

“Okay.” Caligorne seems as indifferent to this as he did to their rebirth, even though the effort he must have put into sending invitations and then leaving himself a week of free time must be significant, just as the effort he poured into their resurrection. “You don’t have to.” 

“I want to go,” says Janlenoux. 

“But--” Adelphel protests. 

“I want to be able to use aether again. If there’s a chance...” Charibert hadn’t noticed, overwhelmed by the other knight’s obvious differences, but it seemed that Janlenoux had lost much more than just an eye in his return. 

Charibert had noticed the control issues himself, of course, but had dismissed them due to... internal imbalance. It would return as he calmed himself. A new fear creeps in, now. What if his control never returns? 

An inquisitor without proper control over their blessings is better off dead. 

“Then I guess we’re going then,” Adelphel says, sour. 

“I will be going,” says Zephirin, voice still in that terrible, hoarse croak. 

Then everyone is staring at him, even Caligorne. Embarrassment builds and churns inside of him, and with horror, he feels the flames begin to come without him calling, licking at his insides. It’s humiliating to have less control now than he did when he was still living in the Brume, reading and stealing tomes from the Father. 

Back then, he had burned just to keep warm. 

“Charibert, calm yourself.” Zephirin’s voice snaps in his ears, mortifying him. He’s trying, Halone damn him! He’s--

Caligorne steps forward, not even taking out his staff. He places his bare hand on Charibert’s chest, and ice spreads like quick frostbite. Within moments, everything is out. The warrior of light steps back, shaking the ice off his palm. 

“Careful.” He turns back to the others. “We’ll be taking the pass that’s just west of the Dusk Vigil. Hopefully, we’ll make good time.” 

He’s not even going to ask if Charibert is coming. 

_Then you die here._

“And no killing heretics either, I suspect?” Charibert stubbornly ignores what just transpired, keeping up with the group. 

“No,” says Caligorne. “Though not many live there. Tailfeather is a hunting camp, and then it’s dragon territory.” 

“No heretics among the dragons?”

“It’s not that. Heretics who chose to live in the Forelands generally become dragons, that’s all.”


	8. Scene Eight: Tailfeather, the Dravanian Forelands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> marcechamp!

Tailfeather used to be the end of the road for travelers, a quiet settlement known only for its collection of chocobo hunters and the occasional lost soul. Now, Marcechamp has found himself needing to provide extra beds for... not heretics, who tended to disdain his settlement, but pilgrims. 

Well, pilgrims and whatever you call the company that Valerian keeps. “Oh, just passing through with the Azure Dragoon and Lady Iceheart, can I have a bed,” “Oh, this is Lucia, second in command of the Temple Knights,” “Oh, this is Aymeric, Lord Commander of Ishgard.” 

“This is Ser Zephirin, of the Heaven’s Ward,” Valerian says to him, helpfully. “Would you mind putting us up for the night?” 

Valerian was a kind, hard working soul, but Marcechamp would never trust him to buy eggs at the market. 

“My door is always open to the one who made Ysasyle’s dream come true, you know that.” Marcechamp sighs, pulling out a chair next to him. “Sit down, already. Have a drink, kick back. How many ‘friends’ did you bring this time?” 

“There are four of us, not including Caligorne,” Ser Zephirin answers, his voice sharp and hoarse. 

_Caligorne?_ No one calls Valerian that. 

Marcechamp looks at Valerian, who looks back at him. If it were anyone else, Marcechamp would think that he was being forced to escort these people against his will. But since it’s him, Marcechamp is going to assume it’s the other way round. 

“You’re headed for the towers, then?” 

Valerian nods, reaching to take hold of his drink. 

“Not sure the dragons are gonna welcome such...company. This is a bit different from pilgrims.” He’s sure Valerian knows what he’s doing, but he’s seen many men venture into Avalonia Fallen, never to return. He’d hate to lose such a useful young man. 

“It’s fine, Vidofnir has already sent a messenger over asking me to talk to her about something. She’ll hold back until that’s done, at the very least.” 

He knows Valerian means to be reassuring. 

“Still..”

“Back a thousand years ago, Vidofnir was friends with a human doctor who studied dragons, so that he could apply human medicine to their wounds. She has enough patience for one conversation, and more than that for Estinien. She’ll have enough patience for this. Thank you for worrying, Marcechamp.” 

He’s still worried, but he lets it be. 

Valerian finishes his cup, then stands up. 

“While I’m here, do you have anything... ?” 

Marcechamp has never understood how a hero of the realm can in all seriousness ask him if he has something pressing that needs doing, like cleaning the stables or doing a perimeter check or helping prune back the local fauna. But.. that’s just Valerian. 

“The west hunting camp hasn’t checked in in a while,” he offers. “Would you mind...” 

Valerian nods. He turns to his so far silent companion. 

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours. If you’re curious about Tailfeather, or want to ask a local, Marcechamp’s family has been here for a thousand years. He’d be a good start.” With no further ado, the hero of legend turns and leaves. Marcechamp can hear the whistle from outside as he takes to the skies. 

_Wait_. How had he known... ?

“Zephirin, was it.” It’s not a question. Marcechamp takes another drink, and sighs. 

The knight looks like he desperately wants to add the ‘ser’, but too bad. Marcechamp doesn’t do that shit. If he wanted to call people ser he’d damn well move to Ishgard and start winning chocobo races. 

“So, you got any questions, or are you gonna leave a man alone to his thoughts.” It’s only now that Marcechamp is taking a closer look that he can see what.. He’s gotten used to seeing in heretics. The knight has a faint speckle of white dragon scales exposed above the collar of his armour. Dragonblood, hm?

My, my. How scandalous. He doesn’t seem the type, though. Political opponent dosed his drinks? Or is it older, mommy or daddy chaining their beloved son to their own dreams of escape. 

The more pilgrims come through, the more Marcechamp feels like he’s seen it all. 

“You mentioned... pilgrims?” Zephirin starts out. The word seems uneasy on his lips. 

Marcechamp nods. 

“Used to be, heretics would give this place a wide berth. They’d come here to be among dragons, not the working class.” Marcechamp laughs a little. “Now, though, we tend to get people out looking for their family.” 

“What?” Zephirin’s eyes narrow as he tries to intimidate Marcechamp. Good luck. 

“Brother ran away to be a heretic, never heard from him again.. He might be dead, but you never know, do you? Of course, there are other reasons. With the knowledge that a drink of dragon blood can give you immortal life, some people just want that. It’s much more difficult to just buy off any down on his luck lancer these days, that’s what I hear. Also much less dangerous now that you aren’t offering up your soul to Nidhogg’s insanity. If you care about that type of thing.” 

Marcechamp spreads his arms. 

“This stuff’s none of my business, though. All I’ve gotta do is take care of Tailfeather. And peace or war, dragons don’t buy our chocobos.” 

That’s that. 

“I didn’t...drink dragon blood.” Zephirin seems almost sour. Aww, knight get his knickers in a twist?

“We’ve all drunk dragon blood,” Marcechamp says dryly. “That’s what it means to be Coerthan, didn’t you hear?” He raises his glass in a toast. 

“I wasn’t aware that this was part of Coerthas.” 

Wow, he’s pedantic on top of being arrogant. 

“We’re all children of the Knights Twelve, are we not?” Marcechamp shouldn’t be saying this type of thing, especially to a member of the Heaven’s Ward. He may be skilled, but he’s not that good. 

“If you’ve heard those tales, then you know it’s the knights _Four_.” 

What in Halone’s name is he talking about? 

Zephirin continues to lay down his strange delusion. 

“King Thordan and his twelve knights did feast upon Ratatoskr’s eyes, and when Nidhogg set upon them in rage, four of them and the king himself perished. Haldrath took himself into exile, and three other knights bowed out, refusing to aid in the founding of a new nation for their people. Thus, did the four remaining knights-- Fortemps, Dzemael, Haillenarte, and Durendaire forge a new path forward, and sentence their descendents to ever suffer for their father’s sins.” The knight’s voice has taken on a fervent, hypnotic quality of one reciting a familiar, true tale-- Which is strange, for this tale should be neither familiar nor true. 

“That’s not how my Dad used to tell it,” Marcechamps says, lazily. “Sounds kind of like, oh, all eight surviving knights were perfectly capable of bearing children.” 

Zephirin’s eyes narrow. 

“That’s--”

“That’s how I remember it as well,” Valerian says, strolling back in. “Hello. The west camp had a small pest problem which was interfering with the chocobos, but it’s fine now.” 

“Your father also told you stories of ancient heretic legends?” Zephirin says, coldy. 

“No, I’ve never met my dad. And I’m from Thanalan. I had an Echo vision of the separation of Thordan’s knights, once. They wanted to put Haldrath on the throne.” 

Marcechamp feels his worldview take a bad hit. 

“He didn’t want it, though. Many of the knights were too ashamed of what they had done to wish to ever hold a blade again.” Valerian speaks of legends in the same tone he used to explain the chocobo flea problem. “When Ratatoskr died, the world wept, and so did her brothers and sisters. And her father, of course.” Valerian nods to thin air. “By taking Niddhogg’s eyes, so did Haldrath take the dreadwyrm’s grief as his own. As it was for Estinien, it was too much to bear.” 

Valerian’s eyes turn to Zephirin.

“Dragons can sense whose blood runs in mortal veins. Just as one may rejoice or despair in finding a mortal who bears an essence familiar to them, so did Nidhogg see his beloved sister in every mortal he slew.” 

Marcechamp closes his eyes as Valerian’s voice continues on, inexorable. 

“Dragons do not experience time as mortals do. For him, both love and hate are eternal.” Valerian shakes his head. “But I’ve digressed. One of the original knights twelve founded this camp, is what I meant to say. Sorry for the history lesson. Good night.” 

He leaves again. 

Typical. 

Zephirin stares at the closed door, hands white knuckles as the clutch the edge of the table. Marcechamp looks at him tiredly, then makes a shooing gesture with his hands. 

“Get some rest, already. From the looks of it, you’re going to need it.”


	9. Scene Nine: The Danneroad, the Dravanian Forelands

_Haldrath’s coffin was so heavy. _

_The weight of ages pressed down on his back as he and Grinnaux took the forward positions, phantom steps of the other knights carrying the hind. But it was strange.. He remembered this so clearly, but--_

_His arms are locked into place inside the coffin, both carrying and being carried towards his doom. There’s something pulsing in his chest, raw power that whispers of everything that could be his..._

Blood of Ratatoskr, 

_It sings to him._

Flesh of Nidhogg. 

_He is the blade called Ascalon. From him the order of the world shall be restored. Blessed is the dragonslayer in the halls of the Fury, and ever shall her spear know his soul. Blessed is the sword that obeys--_

Son of Ishgard, **know your place.**

Zephirin’s eyes snap open, chest heaving as though he’s been sparring for hours. What..was that? He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the lingering cobwebs of his interrupted sleep. Just.. just another nightmare, no doubt brought on by the warrior of light once again being unable to mind his own Fury damned business. 

He gets out of bed, uncaring of the effect his ungraceful early steps will have on the sleep of the other knights. They can mind their tongues. 

Washing his face in the basin outside, Zephirin slaps a hand over the scales on his neck, realizing that they’ve already begun to...grate against the material that keeps his collar up. If it’s like this, then the back of his shirt... 

He doesn’t want to think about it. 

If he grows his hair out more, he could hide the scales like that. But.. 

His eyes fall back to the reflection of his face in the water, and his lips curl into a practiced sneer. It doesn’t hide the pale, drawn out flesh of his face, the redness in his eyes, or the dark circles beneath them. 

If he grows his hair out, everyone will know why. 

“Quit hogging the mirror,” Adelphel grouses, tone no different from when they were both in the temple knights and deployed to Middle of Absolutely Nowhere, Icy Coerthan Field. “...Commander,” Adelphel adds, clearly as an afterthought. 

“There’s a river five steps to your left,” Zephirin snaps back, startled and irritated. Personally, he doesn’t know how Adelphel can stand to use a mirror. His face is perhaps the most noticeable change he has, with the silver eyed dragonic pupils and the fangs that still cut at the edges of his lips. Even his hands can't truly be concealed, because his talons cut right through any glove that could be slipped over them. 

From baby faced darling to that...

Adelphel pays no mind to him, eyes narrowed in concentration as he tries to wipe his face without slicing himself open. He’s given up on the coverings he’d worn in Falcon’s Nest, and his talons shine in the light reflected off the water. 

Zephirin decides he’s done being out here with Adelphel, and stays out just a second longer to make sure that the knight doesn’t consider it a dismissal. 

However, the only thing he finds back in their temporary residence is Caligorne. 

“The weather’s good today,” Caligorne says, mild and pleasant. “I want to leave as early as possible, so it’s good that you all are awake. Let’s meet at the Dannesroad, outside.” 

He’s always wondered about Caligorne’s hair. It’s been purple the entire time he’s known him, but the secondary color keeps shifting, from white to bright pink to dark magenta. It’s clearly unnatural, and deliberate. 

But..why? There’s nothing to gain from it. Caligorne doesn’t need to be respectable, clearly, but all of his ... colleagues.. Seem to prioritize respectability, or at least subtleness. For all their power and arrogance, they portray themselves as the power behind the throne, not the one who sits on it. 

The purple.. It just doesn’t _fit._

“Is something wrong, Ser Zephirin?” 

Caligorne’s voice shatters his fanciful wanderings, letting them vanish into brittle dust. 

_Everything._

“Nothing.” 

Zephirin turns on his heel, heading back out. This day is already boding extremely poorly for him, and it’s barely begun. His sword hangs heavy on his back, its cold weight a grim reminder of his dearest vow-- to prove himself better than all others who would lead the Heaven’s Ward. 

The place where Caligorne had commanded them to assemble at is a pointed reminder of the lies that Ishgard had chosen to leave behind along with their tentative harmony with the dragons of eld. 

They stand on stonework too foreign to be Ishgardian and yet too familiar to be anything else. Were all the imagery not draconic in stature, he could almost believe they were still in Coerthas. The Hissing Cobblestones, he’d heard a local call this place. A curse on any attempting to sneak up on a wild chocobo. 

“Let’s hurry,” Zephirin says, ignoring that he was the one who showed up last. His boots click on the stones as he strides forward. 

“One last thing,” Caligorne says. 

There’s a curious sinking in Zephirin’s gut as he realizes that Caligorne has lost the trappings of a mage, replacing it with a greatsword that hangs across his back. He hasn’t seen that weapon since--- 

_It’s mine now. _

“The road is dangerous ahead. Ser Charibert, you didn’t bring a weapon with you, so I’ll be lending you my staff. Take care of it.” 

Caligorne used that staff to kill his way through the Aetherochemical Facility. And then he’d-- he’d stopped, pulled out his book for his fight against them. Why had he..

For a moment, he’s sure Charibert will refuse. He imagines Caligorne handing him that sword he carries with the ease and confidence that it will not be used against him. 

Even in his head, the sword is too heavy to carry. 

Charibert’s clawed hands grip around the staff so tightly that his nails cut into his palms, already staining the staff with his blood. 

“Be careful when using it,” Caligorne comments. “It’s made to absorb aether from what it kills.” 

Did his codex also..?

They start the next leg of their journey in silence. 

At a damaged statue, Aevian dragons pace around. They pause when the traveling knights come into view, churning and milling in confusion. 

“That’s odd,” Caligorne says. 

Zephirin immediately lunges for his weapon, relieved when Adelphel, Janlenoux and Charibert all make the same call. They ready their attacks--

The dragons run away. 

Zephirin is left to stare after them in blank confusion, as yet another tenant of his worldview is mercilessly violated. 

“I’ve never seen a dragon run away before,” Janlenoux says into the silence. “Is that... common?” 

“No,” Caligorne says. He shrugs. “Maybe they recognized you.” 

Zephirin wants to think he’s implying that the legendary exploits of the knights of Heavens Ward have managed to reach even to the heart of Dravania. Instead... he stares down at the scales on his arms, which match perfectly to one of the Aevian wings. 

Anyx Trine stabs into the sky like the highest spear of the citadels of Ishgard, so tall that even half a day's journey away she is visible to all travellers. Every dragon statue that Zephirin sees makes him want to recoil from the pure blasphemy of the image, and that one worst of all.   
In Ishgard, only saints and Halone herself are allowed to be made into stone, that they may watch over her citizens for eternity. To have a dragon take on that... that height... 

Zephirin is jerked out of his thoughts by a slight tug on his senses. Up ahead on the road a dragon, large and imposing with two horns that curl out of its head and black scales descends from the tower, flapping its wings as it settles in front of the knights. 

“[Mortal champion...]” the dragon hisses, the words settling in Zephirin’s bones even though the language itself is not something he’s ever wanted to understand. “[Not since the carrier of Nidhogg’s eye have you brought such company to our halls.]” 

Caligorne nods. 

“Ess Khas,” he says, “It’s nice to see my sparring partner. I sent word ahead that I was coming?” 

The dragon tips his head back in a move that makes Zephirin instantly cast around for any cover to protect himself from dragonfire, but instead the dragon... laughs? 

“[Vidofnir eagerly awaits you],” it says. “[That there exists those of Nidhogg’s line who have not succumbed to his madness... you have brought joy to her ears, and soon to her eyes.]” 

What?

Caligorne raises an eyebrow. 

“They’re dragon enough for you?” 

What?

“[No matter how ugly their form, we rejoice in the love for our beloved forbearers, Midgardsorrmr’s first children.]”


	10. Scene Ten: Anyx Trine, The Dravanian Forelands

Adelphel has had a horrible month. He’s been killed, been resurrected, had his face and hands permanently mutilated and been disowned by his family. 

However--

In front of him, Janlenoux offers a piece of cooked salmon to a dragon, his single remaining eye calm and focused on the task ahead of him, his tail slinking behind him. 

Caligorne had gone to speak to..Vidofnir, the dragon he claimed was in charge of this place, along with Zephirin and Charibert. He’d offered to let Adelphel and Janlenoux go with them, but-- Janlenoux had declined. To be honest, Adelphel doesn’t even know why either of them are here... though Janlenoux had pointed out the issues with his aetherflow, Janlenoux had already expressed his intentions to become a culinarian. It doesn’t matter if he can’t use magic anymore-- Adelphel can do that for them. 

The real sticking point is that unlike Janlenoux, who can still conceal his changes when necessary, Adelphel is the one who can’t stay in Ishgard. His eyes are slitted, his teeth are pointed, his hands are clawed. 

It’s unmistakable. Unconcealable. Unavoidable. 

It goes against everything he stands for to drag Janlenoux down with him. 

Sensing Adelphel’s gaze, Janlenoux looks up and walks over to him, his blue hair hanging in his face not even close to enough to conceal the glowing font of aether that spills from the scar over his eye. He’s taken his bandages off. 

Janlenoux rests a hand on his shoulder, weight as heavy as the privacy he would need to rest a hand on Adelphel’s cheek. 

“The dragonling wanted to try cooked fish, instead of raw,” he says, voice lowered with faint confusion. “What a strange request...” 

Janlenoux’s voice hadn’t come back with him. It’s a raw, grinding rasp, painful to hear. 

It is known that dragons are sentient, that they plot their cruel machinations and come forth in strategic groupings, that they will knowingly enter traps to avenge their dead, and that many of the larger ones can speak, can curse at the knights of Ishgard. 

It’s considered unlucky to hear a dragon’s voice. Heresy, if you confess to it. Blasphemy, if you repeat the words out loud. An execution, if you persist in your foolishness. 

“Why are we here, Jan?” Adelphel blurts out. “Why’d we come here?” 

Why, why, why?

The smile fades from Janlenoux’s face, and he shrugs, hand coming to rest on the sword that hangs from his waist. 

“I’ve never left Coerthas,” he admits. 

Neither has Adelphel. He’s seen only snow for 6 years, ever since the Calamity. Not since he was 16 summers has he walked beneath green trees. 

“We don’t have to,” Adelphel starts, barely avoiding gnashing his teeth in irritation. He can’t take a split lip right now. “You’re as skilled a chef as you are a knight.” Cold pride straightens his spine. “And I’m just as good with a blade. We don’t have to leave Coerthas.” 

Janlenoux nods, face softening. 

“But we should,” he says. 

The words hang in the smoky air. 

“I don’t... understand.” It’s difficult to force the words out. They’ve been knights of Ishgard, born into the tradition and raised to the highest status possible. For all of-- for all of everything-- For...

Janlenoux stands closer to him, their faces inches from one another. Janlenoux raises a hand to Adelphel’s head, carefully tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear before his hand drops to his side. 

“_We_ would never have been able to stay in Ishgard.” 

The words are brutal, simple, true. 

Adelphel sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Well!” He says, and turns away from watching the sky, facing straight up at the towering mountain behind them. “Where to, then?” 

“To Sohm Al,” Caligorne says, ignoring the staircase to vault down a full story onto the ground beside them. He hits the ground hard, patting a fast healing spell on himself to walk off the damage. “We’ve finished the discussions with Vidofnir. In exchange for any advice she has to offer, she’d like us to clear out the volcano from the various unwanted guests who moved in since I last came through. 

Adelphel’s mind grinds to a halt. 

“The journey’s not... done?” 

“It can be,” Caligorne says. “You don’t have to come. Hospitality will be extended to you as long as you stay here.” 

“Ser Caligorne,” Janlenoux cuts in. “Why did you escort us here, truly? Pray explain yourself that I might understand... I fear your choices strain my credulity.” 

Caligorne nods. 

“Unlike Ser Zephirin or Ser Charibert, you have neither slain someone I loved, nor tortured innocents.” His blunt words slam into Adelphel’s ears like the backside of a blade. “I don’t need to watch over you, and I have confidence you can find your own path.” 

Caligorne tilts his head, mouth quirking into a small half smile. 

“Maybe I enjoy spending time with people who manage to escape tragic ends.” 

Thats-- 

“If we go with you through Sohm Al...” Janlenoux’s voice struggles with everything except the draconic phrase, which flows like water. “There’s something you want to see.” 

Another nod. 

“The summit is perhaps the most beautiful place in all of Dravania,” Caligorne says. “I like it there.” 

“Is it worth it?” 

Adelphel barely recognizes his own voice. 

“To see something wonderful?” The Warrior of Light smiles at them, his face lit up with joy. “That’s why I do everything I do, Sers.” 

He’s never understood what lead the son of Fortemps to fling himself in front of the spear. 

“We’ll go,” Adelphel says, glancing at Janlenoux. “We can travel a bit farther.” 

“We’ll have to make up for Charibert,” Janlenoux says, almost laughing for the first time in weeks. “Race you, Adel!” 

He bolts before it dawns on Adelphel what they’re doing. 

The blood thunders in his veins as he’s hard on Janlenoux’s heels, everything feeling-- Fresh, new, exciting. 

How strange. 

How.. wonderful.


	11. Scene Eleven: Moghome, the Churning Mists

“You can cook, Kupo?” 

Janlenoux stares at the ‘moogle’.   
It stares right back at him, fuzzy wings flapping in the air to support its chubby body. It’s eyes gleam at him, and Janlenoux feels a sudden, strange sense of dread. 

He nods, going so far as to dip into a formal bow.

“I can....” His sentence drifts off as he is once again confronted by the lack of knowledge of how to refer to such a creature. 

“Oh good!” 

Is it good. 

The moogle spins around him in a happy circle, chuckling to itself. Janlenoux’s eyes track it as it bobs up and down, its happy chirps changing into depressed little wheezes as it begins to clutch at its stomach. 

“Oh, woe is me, Kupo! I can’t remember the last time I had a wonderful meal... I simply won’t be able to go on as the number one assistant to the assistant to the stone mason! Oh, if only there were someone who could go and bring back some Kupo nuts and then cook them into something delicious! Oh, woe...” 

Janlenoux doesn’t know what a Kupo nut is. It sounds gross. 

He looks desperately over to Adelphel, only to see him happily petting one of the things. It’s eyes look shut from happiness, but Janlenoux is sure that that smile has a hint of.. Smugness to it. 

When Caligorne had said that the summit was the most beautiful place in Dravania.. He hadn’t been lying, but. He had certainly left out a few details. Janlenoux and Adelphel had been quick to separate themselves from wherever Caligorne intended to take their illustrious leader Zephirin and their senior Charibert. 

However, that had resulted in them staying... here. They could, of course, simply just descend the mountain, but Janlenoux himself found a morbid fascination with seeing what extended exposure to the Warrior of Light did to people. 

Also, Adelphel needed a place to practice his magic. The dragons of Anyx Trine had been strangely willing to part with their own techniques of how to use and channel aether, but... it required use of the dragon’s tongue. 

His own voice has been warped to better suit that foreign, blasphemous language, his every utterance distorted. 

Well, he’s never been inclined to sing. 

The moogle is still staring at him. 

“I can... go and get you some nuts?” Janlenoux tries. _[go; fly away; leave]_

The moogle immediately perks up. Bad. Bad choice he made the wrong choice

“That’s so great of you! I’m going to need for Kupo nuts from the special garden outside, which you can trade for something using my pebbles, but then I also left my bag full of pebbles alll the way over in the House of Letters, which is very scary so you’ll need to go get that back for me, and also--” 

Janlenoux looks desperately over at Adelphel. 

Thankfully reading his cry for help, his old friend heads over to stand next to him. 

“Is something the matter?” Adelphel says, sharp and concerned. 

“No,” Janlenoux says. “It’s just..” _[Just; something; a particle in the universe]_

“More help!” The moogle says. “Wow, I didn’t know you had friends, kupo!” 

...

“Excuse me?” Adelphel stares daggers at the flying rat, who quickly backpedals. “Ah! I mean, how great that you’re also coming to.. Help.. me?” 

“What are _we_ doing, Jan?” Adelphel asks, voice still slightly sharp. 

Janlenoux coughs. 

“Making a meal,” he says, sheepish. _[meal; dinner; flesh]_ It’s really not a big deal. He doesn’t know why he needed Adelphel to come over here-- 

“Then I can help gather ingredients,” Adelphel says, relaxing. The shorter elezen steps closer into Janlenoux’s space, not quite touching. “It’ll be good practice.” 

Adelphel’s sharpened teeth gleam in the low light of the Moogle’s home. 

Janlenoux smiles at him, relieved. 

“That will be... great,” He says, still annoyed at the sound of his own voice. _[great; like unspun clouds]_ His tongue twists around unknown words, and he bites down on it. 

“I wanna come to!” Another moogle chimes in. “Wow... we haven’t had anyone to take us on an escort mission since the landlords all left.” 

“The.. landlords?” _[lords of the land]_

“You used to have landowners?” Adelphel asks, taking point for this new line of inquiry. “Do the dragons not...” 

“No, silly!” Another moogle steps forward, adopting a faux stern tone of voice, as if speaking to a child. 

“Once upon a time, there used to be two people. The skylords, and the landlords. They fought, which was very scary, but then one of the leaders of the skylords fell in love with a landlady, and they got all lovey dovey-- oh we have a song about them! I can sing it--”

“You do not have to do that,” Janlenoux said, very fast. _[have to; force to; geas]_

“The dragons have one to!” It’s a moogle with a harp. “But there’s is very oh no... oh no...” So we like ours better. What about you guys? You’ve got a song about the dragon and his lady, right?

The dragon and his lady-- 

Janlenoux immediately locks eyes with Adelphel, who looks equally horrified. 

“Lady... Shiva?” Adelphel blurts out. “The first heretic?” 

The one who... lay.... With Hraesvelgr!? 

“We don’t.. Sing about that,” Janlenoux says stiffly. _[Sing; record for the heavens; carry the weight of eternity]_

“It's the first sin,” Adelphel says, taking a different tack. “There’s no reason to--” 

The moogles stare back at them in bewilderment. 

Then they all huddle together, loudly whispering back and forth. 

“Shouldn’t we tell them--”

“No, no, what about my pebble bag, kupo?” 

“I want to sing for them! We should sing for them!” 

“They're dragonkin, aren’t they? Shouldn’t they know?” 

“Well, that’s their business?”

“My kupo nuts!” 

“Tell us what,” Adelphel finally says, gritting his teeth. “We already know about Ratatoskr. The Heaven’s Ward are trusted with the truth.” 

Janlenoux bites his tongue, unwilling to undercut Adelphel on that one. 

The moogle who had originally spoken to Janlenoux tilts its head. 

“A trade,” it suggests. “Just do... a couple small tasks for us, and we’ll tell you everything!” 

“Just a couple errands?” Adelphel says. 

All the moogles nod. 

Janlenoux nods to, pushing back the tingling sense of doom. Surely... it will be worth it? 

He slips his hand into Adelshel’s, standing straighter. Even if it’s not worth it... well, it will be fine as long as they’re together. 

_[Together; bound by fate; mated; aligned like stars]_

“We’ll do it.” Janlenoux says. “Together.”


	12. Scene Twelve: Tharl Oom Khash, The Churning Mists

This place was awful. Charibert didn’t like one single part of it, not the crumbling, human built stonework or the little flying rats or the dragons that would freeze and retreat at their presence. He hated the worn dragon statues that adorned every building in the place of saints, and the looming purple crystals that exuded a haze of tangible grief, that clouded his eyes and strained his mind. 

He turns to Sir Zephirin, seeking a small semblance of reality in this abyss of delusion. But the former Archimandrite seems struck by his own terrible visions, haunted in some way by a place that neither of them had ever been-- had ever even heard off. Then, the stability of blame can only fall on one person. 

_“Caligorne.”_ Charibert spits out, his split tongue turning the hiss into something far more literal. “What is this place? It stinks of heresy.” 

Caligorne nods. His arms are crossed over his chest, huge greatsword still strapped to his back. 

“That’s not surprising. This is the place where Ratastokr breathed her last. They call it Tharl Oom Khash; it means--” 

“Crystal from remorse,” Zephirin says, then claps a hand over his own mouth, eyes showing white. 

“Exactly,” Caligorne says. He doesn’t acknowledge Zephirin’s strange, heretical knowledge. Maybe he doesn’t find it strange. “It’s likely that here is where King Thordan and his knights called for her, to speak with her as leader to leader; it is in this amphitheatre where her eyes were devoured and her body dissolved into crystalline remains.” 

Charibert finds his gaze drawn back to the towering structure, proud and soiled by endless orange and purple crystals-- corrupt aether, and levin aether. 

Something here.. It calls to him. He can feel his clawed hands tremble where they cling to the cold metal of Caligorne’s staff, feels the strangled surge of his own aether rattling within the cage of his flesh. 

It’s-- pulling him. In almost a trance, Charibert reaches his hand out towards a large outcropping of the crystal aether--

_“Charibert!”_ Zephirin dashes in front of him, physically putting his own body between the inquisitor and the crystal. 

A bit of the fog dragging through Charibert’s mind clears, and now he has a new emotion...fear. He takes a deep breath, struggling to take a step backwards. 

“You..” He says, voice distorted. “Borel’s _champion_. You’ve taken us here to die?” He can see his own horror reflected in Zephirin’s pale eyes. 

“No,” Caligorne says, low voice still with mild indifference. “I could have killed you in the streets of Ishgard. Or in the Dravanian Forelands. We’re not here to spill more blood on her grave, Ser Charibert.” 

It always stings that he still uses the titles. 

“You’ve brought a strange assortment of people, if your will is not to spill blood,” Zephirin rasps, his body still unmoving from its position between Charibert and the aether crystal. 

Caligorne nods. 

“Well.. admittedly, I don’t care if you die.” 

He hopes the Warrior of Light dies in agony. 

“There’s nothing here for us,” Zephirin says, voice a slightly lower, growling timber than Charibert is accustomed to hearing from him. “This place is empty.” 

“For a dragon, ghosts are eternal,” Caligorne says. Again, his eyes stray to empty space, beholding something that Charibert cannot see. 

“But neither of us are dragons,” Charibert spits back, entire body wracked by burning, uncomfortable chills. 

“I’m not,” Valerian agrees. It’s the thing he hates the most about the Warrior of Light, the slick surface of his flat voice. Nothing sticks to him, nothing breaks him-- well. 

That’s not true, is it. Charibert knows there’s something he can do, to get a reaction. 

“Dragons are known for willingly entering traps to retrieve the bodies of their kin,” Charbert rasps, recklessly hurtling towards his point of impact. “Some dragoons used to deliberately start with the smallest dragon that they could find, and then two or more of them would compete as if in a fishing tournament, each luring bigger and bigger dragons down to kill and use their carcass for the next bait. The tournament would end when either no more dragons emerged, or, more usually, when the lesser dragoon lost to the dragon in question and their body fell to join the bloody heap of dragons below them.” He smiles, flashing his sharp teeth to match his bloodshot eyes. “Our archives contain records of dragons attempting the reverse, dragging Ishgardian bodies to places of prominence to see if we were as foolish as them, to walk into a trap for the sake of our fallen dead.” 

Caligorne is watching him, eyes blank and patient. No doubt he would make an attentive student. 

“We are not that stupid,” Charibert says, pride infusing his voice. “Their carcasses are nothing-- their souls have been welcomed into the Fury’s icy haven. Would you have that strength, oh Warrior of Light? Had we dragged your lover's corpse with us to Azys Lla, would you have walked to your death?” 

His eyes are fast enough to see Zephirin flinch back, but not fast enough to see Caligorne’s blow. The shining black greatsword remains sheathed as Caligorne merely shunts a kick into Charibert’s rib cage, sending him flying back into a jagged piece of crystal. 

Caligorne makes no verbal response. 

Charibert gasps for breath, pain shuddering throughout his body. Clutching at his side, he begins to laugh, each mocking note driving the pain through his lungs like the piercing slide of a dragon’s claw. 

“There’s nothing for us here,” Zephirin says again, his voice becoming strident with the effort to ignore the situation unfolding around him. “Let’s just-- just go back. We don’t need to be here.” 

Charibert laughs louder. 

“Don’t you see, _Commander?_” He says, waving Caligorne’s staff around. It feels.. heavier. There’s something warm in his mouth that might be blood. He swallows it back down, glorying in the taste. He wipes off the extra with the back of his hand, wiping it off into a red smear on the crystal behind him. “This place is a graveyard-- this is Ishgard’s grave. This is the dragon at the bottom of the pile, why can’t you see that? This is the dragon at the bottom of Thordan’s pile.” 

He can see it so clearly. 

“Every other dragon that we fought, that we killed, every dragon that attacked Ishgard-- it was the scent of her, the scent of Ratatoskr that drew them like flies....” His laughter is dissolving further into hiccups as the blood seeps through his rope. He shoves himself further back onto the sharp edge of the crystal, heedless of the worsening damage, the haze that is slowly slipping over his eyes. 

He spits on the ground, letting the red bubbles merrily stain the stone around him. 

“Caligorne.”

“Mm?” The foreign elezen hasn’t moved since the first kick, eyes still blank. 

“Can you heal me?” 

The savior of Ishgard nods. 

“Good. Don’t.” Charibert shoves himself even further back, further and further until he can see the crystal through his chest, like an outgrowth of the corrupting process that had brought him back from the dead. 

“Ser Zephirin,” Charibert says, a smile still twisting through his face as he looks over to regard the stricken visage of his former leader. He could say something here-- he could say something that would hurt him forever, that would torture him and keep him up at night. His death will never affect the Warrior of Light, but that’s not the case for their tormented leader. 

“I’ve never hated anything as much as the idea of feeling empathy for a dragon.” His lips curl into a final sneer. “Even if that dragon is myself. Show yourself out, Archimandrite. I’ll add myself to the pile.”


	13. Scene Thirteen: The Forgotten Knight, Ishgard

Guerrique is very, very drunk. He used to get drunk after work, just for fun, because so many of his fellow knights were so uptight about the whole thing. Even the ones that did come down to the pub with him were all a bunch of pricks, unable to take a bloody joke to the point of punching him square in the face!

Where was the justice in that. Honestly...

He takes another sip, annoyed to remember that his tankard is already empty. He doesn’t have work anymore, so he’s been drinking rather early in the day. Whatever! That’s his right. He’s a free citizen, he can do that. 

He takes great pains to ignore the Au Ra staring daggers at him from the back corner table. He doesn’t know what’s up with that, and it’s none of his business. There’s lots of reasons for people to hate the Ward. It definitely has nothing to do with the other day when he’d challenged the man to an arm wrestling contest, joking that his own crystalline protrusions put him on even ground with the Au Ra’s sharp elbows.

Some people can’t take a joke. 

Speaking of people who can’t take a joke... His reddened eyes drift over to the scene he’d been ignoring, hoping it would go away. But no, Grinnaux is still here. That fucking ass. He’d stormed in an hour ago, squinting around before he stole Guerriqe’s own idea to drown his sorrows in the best cheap swill in town. 

He’d been blind when they returned from Azys Lla, but Guerrque’s heard from people who know people who know people. His sight’s coming back, at least a little bit. Guerrique can’t wait for the day when he’s recovered enough to see himself in a mirror. Now _that’s_ going to be a day for the books. 

Not that his own fangs make for such a thrilling look at the mirror. He’s got chew marks on all his cups now, like an untrained dog got into his full cupboard. He’d feel bad for kissing any girls like this, but there’s always guys. Who cares if they get a couple of cuts, right? 

Right. 

He toasts his own brilliance, forgetting once again that his cup’s already empty. Can this day get any worse?

Valerian Caligorne enters the establishment. He hasn’t heard from Ishgard’s savior since he got his best penmanship out to write a whole fucking fancy sorry-I-can’t-come-to-the-party letter, and he wishes that gap in time could have lasted for at least a little longer. Caligorne’s different today though, black and red mail armour and a giant sword strapped to his back. His eyes drift casually through the room, and he raises an eyebrow at Grinnaux, nods to Guerrique, and then turns and walks to the Au Ra. 

It’s stuff like this that makes him thirsty. If he pushes his ears to the absolute limit, closes his eyes, he bets he could eavesdrop on what those two are saying... though it may be the last thing he ever hears. Ha! 

He can’t pick up very much of the conversation, though. 

“...how long...Rielle...I didn’t lose...just talk to...didn’t you beat him....Valerian?!” 

A heavy thud jerks Guerrique’s eyes back open just in time to see Grinnaux’s battered, heavy axe caught in Valerian’s blade guard, the two now locked together in the shadowy corner of the tavern. 

“Ser Grinnaux,” Caligorne says, polite composure the same as it’s always been. Zephirin should take notes. “This is a peaceful establishment. Perhaps you would like to take this outside...?” 

Grinnaux laughs. 

“You Fury cursed flea bitten cur,” he snarls. “I’ll do whatever I damn well please, no matter if that blue bastard has replaced his old lapdog with a foreign breed.” He’s tall enough to look down on Caligorne, and he uses every single ilm of his height to do so. The curling horns protruding from his forehead merely add to the look, in Guerrique’s humble opinion. 

“His old lapdog...?” Caligorne repeats, his polite facade disappearing as a delighted smile slowly turns his former indifference into the worst of insults. “Are you referring to Estinien? Estinien Wyrmblood?” 

“You know damn well who I’m talking about,” Grinnaux says. 

“I have to use that next time,” Caligorne says, more to himself than to the angry man with an axe. “A lapdog...” 

Guerrique’s way too drunk not to laugh out loud. 

Both of their heads snap in his direction. 

...Oops. 

He holds up his hands in a farce of surrender. 

“Don’t mind me, old chaps. There’s nothing wrong with getting drunk a little early, is there?” He can’t help himself. “But if you want my opinion--” 

“I don’t.” Grinnaux yanks his axe back from its resting position on Caligorne’s sword, and points it in Guerrique’s direction. “I’ll deal with anyone who gets in my way, Guerrique. Shut up, or I’ll silence you for good.” 

He means it, is the problem. 

“Have it your way,” Guerrique says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve never known anyone so angry at losing a simple arm wrestling contest anyway.” No, death wasn’t enough for him to get over being clocked over the head so hard he fainted for the sake of Grinnaux’s injured pride. 

“Only cowards tolerate defeat!” Grinnaux growls back, seemingly reminded of his original purpose in attempting to cleave Caligorne in two. Behind them, the Au Ra huffs, his own arm drifting towards his sword. If Grinnaux keeps pushing this, he’s not going to be walking out of this bar. 

Should he interfere?

Nah. Grinnaux is a grown man. He can make his own decisions-- that’s the most he can give any of them now. If Grinnaux’s untempered decision is to die on the floor of a dirty bar... 

Well then. A toast to House Dzemael! 

But it’s not to be. 

“I, Grinnaux de Dzemael, son of House Dzemael, and knight of the Heaven’s Ward, challenge you, Valerian Caligorne, ward of House Fortemps, to a duel within the Tribune. Under Halone’s watchful eye, all grudges will be washed away in blood.” 

Grinnaux isn’t a Dzemael anymore, and the Heaven’s Ward do not exist, but it makes his demands no less valid-- any citizen of Ishgard has the right to demand such a duel. And it will be high drama, which always makes the inquisitors happy. Usually there’s no one alive for a rematch. 

“Here here!” Guerrique cheers into the suddenly silent bar. 

Behind the Au Ra, a small elezen girl blanches, her pale face draining of all color as she reaches out to grab onto his sleeve. 

“Three cheers for the Fury!”


	14. Scene Fourteen: The Scholasticate, Ishgard

“Only the Fury can absolve us of our sins.” Haumeric recited the familiar phrase, continuing the endless process of reacquainting himself with the numerous books on Halonic doctrine that make up a thousand years of study. He’d given up his spot in the Trinity in order to join the Heaven’s Ward at Zephirin’s request, and once declined, there is no way he could ever regain that lofty position within the Vault. But still... a frown wrinkles his face as he stares at the new faces within the Scholasticate. 

It’s a different place than the one he’d graduated from. Teachers and students alike bustle around, checking the written facts against the new knowledge they’d gained from the Lord Commander’s devotion to the truth. Many of the higher ranked officials have been dragged into meeting after meeting as the new curriculum is devised, and current high priests and inquisitors are being mandated to return to the Scholasticate for brief lessons and policy updates that they can then bring outside of Ishgard, into Coerthas. 

It’s an undertaking of massive, generational importance. 

Haumeric feels kind of... left behind. 

But the first step in gaining knowledge is starting with the basis, so there’s naught to be done but press on. With that thought in his mind, he firmly sets his eyes on the page in front of him, only for a disturbance to sweep through the entire library. 

“Ser Zephirin!” One of the other teachers says, flustered. “No one except Vault personnel is allowed inside right now! Even someone of your... stature.. Simply can’t be allowed in! No exceptions!” 

Zephirin? _Here?_

Haumeric looks up from his book, flustered by the sudden intrusion of his past into his new present. 

“Ser Zephirin?” he says. It comes out more tentative than he’d expected, and he almost hopes that Zephirin doesn’t hear him-- that the former Archimandrite has come to the cloistered halls of the Scholasticate for a different purpose, that no longer includes him. 

He’s not willing to leave this place on Zephirin’s word once again. 

But luck is not with him today.. If it ever was. The cold ice crystals that encircle his throat and numb his tongue seem to dig deeper into his skin, the icy cold of his crystalized teeth felt even as he hides them, refuses to smile or snarl. 

“Ser Haumeric,” Zephirin says, his hollowed out eyes for one second regaining their familiar spark as he strides in Haumeric’s direction. The sight makes Haumeric’s guts sink in anticipation. 

He wants something. What does he want what does he--

Haumeric coughs, clearing his throat. It feels like his words are being damaged before they can make it out of his mouth, his former clarity rendered a cruel dream. 

“What would you ask of me,” he says. 

Zephirin gives him a relieved glance. 

“I need you to--” 

There’s another disturbance within the cloister. A younger student-- brown hair, freckles. A kind face. 

“The Warrior of Light is to go into the Tribunal!” He yells out, voice high with nerves. “Leigh.. Crammavoix-- We have to go!” 

Zephirin jerks to a halt midstence, and Haumeric likewise loses his train of thought. What..

“You there,” Haumeric says, needing no magic except for his voice to freeze the young man in place. “Explain. Right now.” 

“Uhh...” the student swallows hard before he continues in a much smaller voice. “Valerian Caligorne has been challenged to a duel at the Tribunal by Grinnaux, formerly of the Dzemael family. And he’s accepted. That’s why, uh, Archombadin couldn’t make it today, the Dzemael house is attending...” He trails off, seemingly unwilling to explain further. His friend Leigh, however, is under less duress. 

“Archombadin said it’s a whole thing. That at least his brother’s going to die with honor.” 

Haumeric’s throat locks up. 

“It’s not against a dragon, but...” Leigh, too, loses a bit of steam, the tinge of his Brume accent seeping through. It reminds Haumeric of Charibert. “What with the war being over and all. Best substitute.” 

A highly publicized funeral. 

From the other side of the young boy, Haumeric watches Zephirin’s eyes fade into a dull, resigned determination, no different than he had looked on the ship to Azys Lla. 

“Haumeric,” he says, again. “I need to-- I need to tell you something.” 

Haumeric doesn’t resist the implications, moving away from the young inquisitive ears of the Scholasticate students into a private, dusty room full of scrolls. 

“Yes...?” 

“Charibert’s dead.” Zephirin says it abruptly, quickly. That almost makes it harder to process. 

“What... what?” Haumeric stares back at Zephirin, completely flummoxed. “Did he turn himself in to the Inquisitors?” 

It’s the only thing he can think of. 

For some reason, that makes Zephirin flinch a little, as if he hadn’t thought of that possibility. Strange. This is Ishgard, after all. Halone tests her children harshly. 

“No,” Zephirin says, then stops, hesitant. 

This isn’t the Zephirin that Haumeric knows. It feels like speaking to a stranger, even though Zephirin’s face remains the most unchanged of all of them. 

“Tell me or don’t,” Haumeric says, mildly bitter. It’s not that he’d liked Charibert very much. He hadn’t. But there was one less of them now. Him, Zephirin, Adelphel, Janlenoux, Grinnaux, Guerrique. 

That wasn’t very many at all. 

“It was on the...trip Caligorne invited us on,” Zephirin says, finally. “Have you heard of.. What the dragoons have been finding, up in the Churning Mists?” 

Haumeric nods. 

“It matches the records we’ve been finding were deliberately hidden within the Vault, only to be told to the Archbishop,” he says. It’s disturbing. The innocent blood that soaks the pages of Ishgardian history-- that would be enough to drive any man to a horrible end. As the Scholasticate had so recently experienced. 

“I’ll have a grave made for him,” Haumeric says. “It’s the least I can do.” 

That only seems to disturb Zephirin more. 

“That’s not..” he says, visibly distressed, which is terribly unusual for him. “I don’t think he’d appreciate the gesture. There’s something more important to do now.” He firms up his voice, eyes squarely meeting Haumeric’s. “We need to save Grinnaux. I won’t have him die.” 

Haumeric hears a strange ringing in his ears, and feels an even stranger pain radiating from his knuckles. 

It’s not till he registers the blood trickling down from Zephirin’s nose that he registers he’s resorted to violence at all. 

“You won’t let him _die?_” He repeats, voice low and incredulous. “That’s the Warrior of Light, Ser Zephirin. You won’t have a choice. None of us will. Lord Caligorne is an honorable elezen, but he dislikes Ser Grinnaux.” Haumeric pauses. “And he hates you most of all.” 

It’s that reminder that seems to pierce through whatever insanity has possessed Zephirin. 

“I...” 

“We can go watch,” Haumeric says, voice flat. “If it matters to you so much. It’ll be just like old times, Grinnaux in the fight and us in the stands. All that’s missing is Ser Paulecrain’s obnoxious cheers.” 

“And Charibert’s complaints,” Zephirin says. 

Haumeric snorts. 

“And Noudenet’s lectures.” 

For a company so littered with ghosts, it seems almost peaceful to speak like this, hidden within the duty shelves of his stained legacy. Of course, that would no doubt change when confronted with the full force of the Inquisitor's headquarters.


	15. Scene Fifteen: The Supreme Sacred Tribunal of Halonic Inquisitory Doctrine, Ishgard

It felt like he was about to lose everything. Zephirin didn’t know why it felt like that-- as Haumeric had so steadfastly demonstrated, the duel didn’t relate to Zephirin at all, or if he did involve himself it would only make Caligorne more determined, more deadly. 

But still-- he had taken responsibility for Grinnaux’s actions from the moment the angry young noble had joined the Heaven’s Ward. Had taken responsibility, even, for Grinnaux’s failed attempt to kill Caligorne and his two fellow wards in one fell swoop. It need not matter that it had been planned in advance, that the Archbishop had made his will clear--

All that had mattered was that Grinnaux had failed. 

There had been layers upon layers of handicaps in that battle, Zephirin can see now. Not only had Caligorne been fighting two members of the Heaven’s Ward, he had done it alongside a youth never tested in battle. The fight might have been over faster had Caligorne not been forced to split his concentration, one eye always on the young Alphinaud Leveilleur. 

Everything about the Tribunal is drenched in the bloodied weight of his sins. Here, where Halone sees most clearly. The wide arches, the dull eyes of the watching saints-- the audience seating, packed hours in advance. Were they other than the corrupted Ward, they might not even have been able to see through the crowd-- but as they are, the crowd parts before them, unwilling to even brush against their armour. 

He can see Haumeric’s lips twist with sour amusement. 

It’s with a sickening twist in his gut that he sees Caligorne for the first time since they parted ways in Falcon’s Nest. The dusky skinned elezen has returned to his typical attire, a black and purple foreign robe that sweeps to the floor. The mage staff that Charibert had died holding is re-holstered on his back; in his hands he’s holding...the grimoire he used to kill them all. A twinkling red ruby carbuncle twines around his legs, purring slightly. 

Caligorne crouches down on his side of the proving grounds to pet it. 

On the other side of the grounds, Grinnaux has also arrived early. His eyes, which had been glazed over with a strange white crystal, seem to have cleared up, letting him once more stare around the crowded bleachers with an angry, searching eye. When his gaze catches on Zephirin, he sneers.

_“You,”_ Grinnaux says, and Zephirin can do nothing except-- feel a slight emptiness, as he turns to Haumeric only to realize Haumeric has stepped away from him to take a different place at the balcony. Haumeric’s goodwill has always been a sharply limited resource, coldy distributed as he strives for the good of Ishgard. Zephirin thinks that for him, it's reached the point of complete depletion. 

Haumeric joined the Heaven’s Ward to have a louder voice in Ishgard’s policy. Now, he has none.

_“You!”_ Grinnaux repeats, his snarl ripping into a loud shout. The crowd begins to still and murmur, and Zephirin feels countless gazes begin to turn towards him, eager for the pre-show entertainment to begin. _“Zephirin!”_

There’s now a cold emptiness around him-- the citizens of Ishgard have given him enough space to highlight him better than a circle of torches. Zephirin’s eyes search around for something, anything, but Haumeric remains far back, his face in shadow. 

“Ser Grinnaux,” Zephirin says finally, gathering his composure. “You seem distressed.” His voice, trained for public speaking, carries through the echoing chamber.

“Distressed?” Grinnaux’s voice booms and carries like thunder. “On the contrary, Oh Noble Archimandrite. I’m delighted! Aren’t you? Aren’t you so _sick_ of pretending to like me, just to bootlick for Thordan? Just to have to scrape on your knees, apologizing whenever I step over the line?” 

His axe scrapes across the ground, screaming and sparking over the stone floor. He seems energized now, happy to air the Ward’s dirty laundry to the world. 

Why did he want to save this man again?

“Have some dignity, Ser Grinnaux,” Zephirin says, feeling the mistake burn his mouth on the way out. “There’s no one who’s going to protect you now.” 

That silences everyone. Except--

“Ha! That’s right, Zephy! Grinnaux! You tell ‘em!” 

Guerrique’s ale soaked voice hits with all the dignity of a wet sock. He’s on the other side of the crowd, backed against his own section of the balcony. He’s never been one to carry his wine well, and the tracery of veins across his flushed cheeks imply that he’s been handling it even worse than usual, only his hands remaining firm and unshaking. 

“You shut up too!” Grinnaux’s barks back at him, before snorting and deliberately ignoring them both. The crowd’s fascinated hum also fades to silence as an unfamiliar inquisitor takes to the altar to give the pre battle declarations and offerings to Halone. 

Zephirin can’t hear anything over the pounding of his own heart, can’t look away from Caligorne. The way he bows before he begins-- the weightless ease of his stance--

The bright pink streaks that run through his purple hair. 

If Caligorne senses his gaze, he doesn’t show it, never taking his eyes off of his opponent. The book in his hand glows pale white, like

_You fools dare defy a god!?___

_ _Like when he had entered the Singularity Reactor. Except he’s not... angry. Zephirin remembers that now, as if seeing through a haze that had covered all of his eyes during his time on Azys Lla. _ _

_ _Back then, he’d been furious. Caligorne had been wearing a brown robe, but, like the Azure Dragoon, Nidhogg’s death had covered it in crystalized dragon’s blood. He’d worn that bloody robe through the Vault, and through the Clouds, and through the Reactor. His eyes had burned with arcane might. He’d screamed Haurchefaunt’s name. _ _

_ _There’s nothing like that now. Caligorne flicks his fingers, and the small carbuncle begins to throw fire attacks while a base kind of malice seeps through the air, driving Grinnaux to waver and cough as he charges forward, axe swinging. Valerian snaps his fingers, reforming the ruby carbuncle into a topaz one that jumps and blocks most of Grinnaux’s swings. _ _

_ _“Burn in hell!” Grinnaux screams at Valerian. “I’ll drag you down there myself!” _ _

_ _Caligorne chants another spike of pain before he responds. _ _

_ _“If you intend to die fighting me, it’s you who will be condemned,” he says, the flat tone of his voice boosted to an echoing grandiosity by the way the sound blooms in the Tribunal hall. “Unless...” His lips quirk. The grimoire suddenly floats up in front of him as he clasps his hands together, and then..._roars._ _ _

_ _The sound drills into Zephirin’s bones, sending him staggering back. _ _

_ _Caligorne had done this there as well, had called upon the might of what Zephirin had only known to be a dragon's roar and channeled more and more power into his magic, had called down dragonic fire on them. _ _

_ _But back then, Zephirin had been unable to understand the dragon tongue. _ _

_ _ _[I am Bahamut! Know my wrath! Vengeance for my children! Vengeance for my sister!]_ _ _

_ _Zephirin drops to his knees, hands clamping around his ears as he tries to get the magnetic roar out of his head. He can’t-- he can’t--- He can’t do this here, in the tribunal. In Ishgard. In Coerthas he can’t--_ _

_ _He feels Haumeric’s hand cover his mouth to muffle his screams. _ _

_ _“You can’t do this here,” Haumeric says, as if he could read Zephirin’s mind. “Get up, Commander. Or you’ll never be able to get up again.”_ _

_ _It’s the first time he’s heard that title used with even a hint of sincerity since Ser Aymeric de Borel had used it when they first returned to Ishgard. Zephirin stands straight again, spine rigid as he refuses to meet the eyes of anyone (everyone) who heard him scream and fall. _ _

_ _Caligorne has dropped the draconic impression for now, moving back to more mundane methods of arcane terror. Grinnaux is losing, but he’s losing... very slowly. _ _

_ _In a moment of clarity, Zephirin wonders why. _ _

_ _Why Caligorne is bothering with this whole charade. He doesn’t have to be here, and he doesn’t have to.. Do what he’s doing right now, letting Grinnaux slowly doom himself. Zephirin’s seen Caligorne use his staff-- the skill is incomparable. The man who beat Thordan and his Knights Twelve wouldn’t need more than a moment to defeat Grinnaux as he is now. _ _

_ _And yet, Grinnaux is still alive. Thus, Caligorne has something else in mind. But...what else is there?_ _

_ _Grinnaux has chosen his fate. _ _

_ _He sees Caligorne lips move. He’s.. talking to Grinnaux. But Zephirin can’t hear, doesn’t understand. Can’t hear a single word until Caligorne raises his voice. _ _

_ _“So be it.” _ _

_ _The grimmore’s light dims, and Grinnaux puts down his axe. _ _

_ _“Ser Zephirin,” Caligorne says, voice clear. “How would you like to come down here and take Ser Grinnaux’s place?” _ _

_ _..._ _

_ _ _What?_ _ _

_ _It feels like he’s in a dream, as he glances down at the proving grounds and then up at the inquisitor, who seems to have no problem with a huge policy violation. _ _

_ _“Why?” Zephirin manages, truly and utterly baffled. _ _

_ _Caligorne stares back at him. _ _

_ _“I was telling him he needs to call in a second, but he said his second’s already dead. And that he wasn’t going to fight me two versus one, which is a strange stance to take. So, Ser Zephirin. Would you like to take his place?” _ _

_ _For a long, terrible pause, the only thing in the whole arena Zephirin can see is Fray, who died on these bloody floors long before Caligorne entered the nation of Ishgard. _ _

_ _Instinctively, his fingers grasp at the hilt of his greatsword. _ _

_ _Bastardswords, Fray had always called them. _ _

_ _For bastards only, by word or by blood. _ _

_ _It’s such a stupid-- _ _

_ _Zephrin jumps down into the arena._ _

_ _It’s such a stupid reason. _ _

_ _“Get out of here,” He says to Grinnaux._ _

_ _Grinnaux looks at him like he’s crazy. _ _

_ _“What are you _talking_ about?” He says. “Idiot. Never even practiced doing a swap out with the rest of us when we were all gods. Paulecrain had to put up with Vellguine and _Ignasse_, for fucks sake. While you got a solo. Guess that’s what being the Archimandrite gets ya.” _ _

_ _“Are you ready to continue?” Caligorne says. He’s swapped the book for his staff, and ice burns at its tip. _ _

_ _Now it’s Zephirin’s turn to charge. His blade slams against the metal staff with a harsh clang as burning leylines materialize at Valerian’s feet. For all that it's a blade against a mage, it feels like Caligorne has also decided to make his stand-- he won’t be moving to dodge, only block. _ _

_ _Zephirin feels lightning materialize above his head and strike down like a bolt of divine judgment. He staggers, muscles shuddering in an attempt to resist paralysis. _ _

_ _“You are.. So strong...” He whispers. “Why?” _ _

_ _Fire is next in the cycle, scorching his hands and turning his metal garb burning hot. _ _

_ _Caligorne smiles at him, sweetly. _ _

_ _“I have things I don't want to lose,” he says. “Whenever I lose someone, I always find that behind them are even more things that are precious to me-- that’s what’s so scary about life.” _ _

_ _“I’ve already lost everything,” Zephirin says, and then--_ _

_ _Feels a shadowy hand grip his throat. _ _

_ _“No you haven’t,” Caligorne says. The elezen throws him back, stumbling into the wall. _ _

_ _The elezen cocks his head._ _

_ _“Fray says you never had any friends to lose.” _ _

_ _Thats..._ _

_ _Behind him, Grinnaux bursts into laughter. _ _

_ _“That’s pathetic,” he says. “Not even someone like Paule? That bastard.” _ _

_ _“Most people don’t have someone like Paulecrain,” Zephirin bites back, testy and embarrassed. _ _

_ _Grinnaux only guffaws louder. _ _

_ _“I should have just left you to your fate,” Zephirin grits out. _ _

_ _“But you didn’t,” says Caligorne. His eyes flicker between the two of them. “You can sort this out later, I think. I don’t like it here.” _ _

_ _With that as his only warning, Zephirin, eyes widen as a huge storm begins to brew within the room. _ _

_ _It takes a while for him to wake back up again._ _


	16. Scene Sixteen: The Fury's Mercy, Ishgard

Grinnaux stares in disgust at the amount of bandages the chirugeons have him wrapped in. All of this.. For what? Some lightning burns? He’s sure he got worse when he ended up on the wrong side of Hermenost when the old monk was having a bad day. 

Flexing his numb fingers, he turns his attention to the pathetic way that the former Archimandrite groans in his sleep. They’d been stuck in a room together, probably because none of the other patients wanted to risk contamination. Or rather, he’d been stuck in a room with Zephirin, who hadn’t even managed the simple task of waking back up. 

Caligorne hadn’t hit them _that_ hard. 

Grinnaux takes another look at Zephirin, and adjusts that thought. Caligorne hadn’t hit _him_ that hard. The ex-Archimandrite looks like he got caught in a belfry during an umbral storm. Silvery branches of scorched flesh do what the scales couldn’t, marking up their glorious leader’s snow white cheek with the warrior of light’s own idea of a loser’s brand. 

It makes him laugh, the easy hate he feels for Caligorne mingling and interbreeding with the hatred he has for the betrayal of his family, the burning rage against the dragons he’s carried his entire life, the anguish for---

This whole thing just pisses him off. For the longest time, he’d been sure that Caligorne had done it on purpose, picked and chose who he grabbed back from Halone’s icy halls and who he left to rot in Her glorious presence. 

It just doesn’t make sense that some wimpy ass cleric like Haumeric, or a cook like Janlenoux, would come back, but Paule would stay dead. What the hells is that about!?

He must have just hated Caligorne enough to refuse the invite on principle. Always was a spiteful bastard. But then why....

Grinnaux yanks his mind away from that track, and kicks at Zephirin’s bed. 

“Hey, heretic,” He says, voice hoarse. “Wake up.” 

Zephirin groans a little, twitching his head away so that the really damaged cheek comes into contact with the threadbare excuse for a pillow. Grinnaux can see the moment that the spike of pain jams right through his dreams and deposits his unhappy mind in the waking world. 

“Wh--”

He jolts upright, scales along his neck and arms gleaming through the layers of bandages. 

“What’s happening!? Where’s--” 

Grinnaux can’t be blamed for laughing at him. His own voice is rougher now, less obviously fucked than Haumeric’s, but still... different. Or maybe that part’s just in his head. Nah, it’s probably real. 

“It’s just us, Zephirin. What, you thought the warrior of light was gonna stick around by your bedside? Tend your wounds?”

The knight’s got enough spirit left in him to give Grinnaux a sullen glare. 

“None of that would have happened if you hadn’t challenged Caligorne to a duel in the first place, Grinnaux. What in Halone’s name were you thinking!?” The words are said in a venomous hiss while the elezen himself remains hunched from pain, hands clenching and unclenching as he resists touching his many wounds. 

Ah.

The taunting grin falls away from Grinnaux’s face, leaving him with nothing but a cold certainty. 

“I was thinking it was time to die, _obviously_.” He says, the volcanic anger that’s only magnified since he returned from death hardening into something solid and implacable. “I’m sick of this place, I’ll never return to my former station, and the people I want to see are all in Halone’s halls.” 

He’s satisfied that Zephirin doesn’t miss the implication of whom he doesn’t want to see. The small flinches are satisfying, as they always are. 

“You can’t get there through fighting Caligorne,” Zephirin points out, mouth flattening into a thin line. 

Grinnaux snorts. Caligorne seems pretty draconic to him. 

“Halone’s hell, then. It doesn’t matter.” 

“It doesn’t--” Zephirin sits up straight, eyes blazing as he pushes himself fully upright. “It does matter. That’s why I stepped into the trial.”

“You stepped into the trial because Caligorne wanted you to,” Grinnaux points out, annoyed. “There was no fire in him, like back when he’d been defending that overeducated brat. He was bored.” 

Zephirin grits his teeth, but doesn’t deny the point. Grinnaux watches him sort through and discard various arguments, slowly grinding through everything he knows about Grinnaux the Bull, formerly of House Dzemael, formerly of the Heaven’s Ward. Formerly, formerly, formerly...

Eventually, everything is ground to dust and discarded. 

Finally, Zephirin breaks new ground. 

“Charibert’s dead,” he says. 

Grinnaux raises an eyebrow.

“Good riddance.” 

Zephirin gives him a horrified look, like he’s expected to care about the worst coworker he’s ever had. Imagine working with someone that constantly sent dark looks towards him and Paule while wearing the most stunningly ugly makeup Grinnaux has ever seen. 

Well, Grinnaux doesn’t have to imagine. 

“That’s what I never got about you, Zephirin,” Grinnaux says, ideas tumbling through his head like a slow moving avalanche. “You had that shiny idealism, more than any of us. Me and Paulecrain used to joke about it, like with the way you named your sword. ‘Shattered Heart?’ We were like did he lose a girlfriend? A lover? That can’t be, he’s a knight and a virgin. So.. it must be your heart that’s shattered.” He tosses his head, as if that will get rid of the weight of the horns. “Why’d you even get your position, anyway? Old Thordan didn’t care about having a counterbalance to his opinions, and you don’t have strong connections. Sure, you’re good with a sword, but there’s lots of skilled swordsmen in Ishgard.” 

Grinnaux grins.

“Paule had his bets on you just being a placeholder for Aymeric, that blue bastard.” 

Zephirin goes white with fury, surging to his feet in order to swing a clumsy fist in Grinnaux’s direction. Now _that’s_ more like it. Grinnaux laughs, catching the punch easily. 

“Not so tough now, are you?” He says, amused. “Now, how about--”

He hears the clank of armour as several more people enter the room. 

“Grinnaux,” Guerrique drawls, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought we wouldn’t be able to find you, but it turns out you were making a commotion loud enough to be heard three wards over. And now I’m out 300 gil.” 

“Cheap as always,” Grinnaux mocks, letting Zephirin’s fist drop out of his hand. His eyesight, still difficult and blurred when looking into the distance, barely makes out the forms of Haumeric, Adelphel, and Janlenoux. “Well, well. We’re all here.” 

Various grimaces cross the faces of everyone present except for Haumeric, face frozen in disgusted neutrality as always. 

“Not for long,” Adelphel says, speaking for both him and Janlenoux the way he always does. “We’re taking the next airship out.” There’s a strange new way he pauses after every sentence, like he’s hearing more things than the rest of them. “To Limsa Lominsa.” He gives a slight bow to Zephirin, and disregards the rest of them.

“Ser Zephirin. I, Adelphel de Chevraudan, do formally resign my position as Knight of the Heaven’s Ward. I give up all rights of honor that did come to me, and all privileges of my station. I go into the world with only the Fury’s grace to guide me, and thus to return my sword to Ishgard. May Radiance serve the Holy See.” 

He sets his sword down on Zephirin’s bed. Behind him, Janlenoux speaks as well, his damaged, growling voice still soft with his weak nature. 

“Ser Zephirin. I, Janlenoux de Courcillant, do formally resign my position as Knight of the Heaven’s Ward. I give up all rights of honor, all privileges, and all possessions bestowed upon me. May Ultimum grace the Vaults once more.” 

His heavy sword clanks down beside Adelphels lighter one. 

“We did answer your call,” Janlenoux says. “First to the Ward, and then all the way from beyond the Veil, we heard, and we answered. Let no one say we did not answer.” 

“You can still call,” Adelphel says. He pauses again. “And we might answer.” 

“I won’t,” Zephirin says, eyes fixed on the swords. “You’ve done everything I could have asked for.”

No one contradicts him. 

“Be well,” Janlenoux says, as he and Adelphel leave. He’s more charitable than Grinnaux would have been by a large margin. 

“I’m here to resign as well,” Haumeric says. The crystalized icy blue of his teeth flash as he speaks, glittering in the light. “I didn’t think to bring my weapon-- it’s difficult to replace such a good channeling tool, and I’ll need it in order to climb back into the Scholasticate’s upper echelon once more.”

Grinnaux hears Guerrique whistle. Now that’s how you do it-- ice cold. 

“Understood,” Zephirin says, voice barely shaking. “May the Fury guide you.”

“May she absolve us of our sins,” Haumeric says. He gives a deeper bow than Janlenoux, robes sweeping the floor before turning to leave. 

Then he looks back.

“Ser Zephirin,” He says, ice numbed tongue stumbling over the words. “I, too, answered your call to the Ward and from beyond the bounds of death itself. Should you require my services for a third time... I will not deny you.” 

He leaves quickly, before Zephirin can respond. 

Then it’s just the three of them. Guerrique, Grinnaux, and the ex-Archimandrite himself. 

“Well?” Zephirin says, voice a bare thread. “It seems like you also have something to say to me.” 

Guerrique laughs, the stink of alcohol less heavy on his breath now then the last time Grinnaux had seen him. Admittedly, that’s not saying much. 

“I didn’t join the Ward because of you, Zephirin,” The drunkard says casually. “Well, that’s not true. I got the opportunity to join because of you. But I _joined_ because I wanted to. At this point I can't really tell when I stopped doing things because I wanted to and started doing them because I was.. ‘Blessed’, or ‘tempered’ or whatever Caligorne was going on about. But when I decided to come back from death, that was all me. And none of it from you. Heard Caligorne’s sparky little essence and was like what the hell... we can try this again.” 

He shrugs.

“Don’t think the Wards will ever really exist anymore, but I’m sure as hell not stepping down. Borel’s spoken to me. My room’s in the Vault are still mine, I still get a stipend, and I still can usually manage to get free drinks at bars. Ishgard isn't getting rid of me so easily.” 

With that, the weight of the conversation falls back to Grinnaux, who shifts uneasily under the pressure. 

He’d thought-- well, his first form of resignation had been death. But looking at everyone else... it would be fucking embarassing if everyone except him and Charibert were doing fine. He’s _nothing_ like Charibert. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Grinnaux snarls, crossing his arms as if Zephirin had said something. “None of them are. I’ll be staying in Ishgard for as long as I live and breathe.” 

Zephirin looks between the two of them, an expression of warring hope and disbelief crossing his features. 

“You are the two least reliable people I’ve ever served with,” he says, finally. 

Grinnaux rolls his eyes. 

“But you have served with us,” He says. 

What a sight they make. Zephirin’s bandages reopened from scraping against his own white scales, the crystalline fangs that protrude from Guerrique’s mouth cut his lips even as he opens them to speak, and him with his stupid, oversized horns. 

“But I will serve with you,” Zephirin says, and for a miracle his voice remains steady. His lips curl into a pained smirk, and his eyes flick to Grinnaux. “My oath upon my Shattered Heart.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking around! everything's wrapped up except for the epilogue.


	17. Scene Seventeen: Delta Quadrant, Azys Lla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we made it

This time, Valerian came alone. He needed no aid to traverse the yellowed skies of the damaged Allagan research-city-- His own mana cutter more than up to the task. He first cast his gaze upon the bay of Helix, where Geroldt waits for him, impatiently drinking his way through the day. Then, to the central containment ship, where Krile and Urianger remain, eagerly sorting through the destroyed remnants of the prison of three false gods. Then, above that. To the Singularity Reactor, the heart of the facility. Two Ascians and another primal, dead. 

But he’s not here for any of that. Not right now, and hopefully never again. 

So in the end, his gaze turns south, to Delta Quadrant. The home.. If it can be called that, of the Merycadian dragons, most long driven insane by their tortures, despair, and isolation. But one still remains as sane as the day she was brought here, bound in a prison so highly bound that anything less than a primal would never be able to escape. 

“Tiamat,” Valerian says, sitting down on the same ledge that Midgarsormr had once launched him off of. “I wanted to talk to you.” 

A dragon so consumed by sorrow and regret that she’d remained within the agonizing embrace of the Allagan’s neurolink bindings to this day.. A forceful reminder of the grief that chained her in an abyss of despair. 

She turns her head to look down at him, the force of her aura bearing down on Valerian like a physical weight. 

He’s shouldered heavier burdens. 

“[Child of man....],” She says, speaking in the tongue of dragons. “[You have returned to this benighted place.]” 

“It’s pretty ugly, isn’t it.” Valerian says, eyes turning to stare out at the rest of Azys Lla. 

Tiamat’s laughter is a horrifying wail. 

“[You look upon the remains of the land of dragons, mortal. The land of my cage, they ripped from the ground of Meracydia itself.]” 

She pauses. 

“[But you are not wrong. Time among the polluted stars has done the land no favours.]” 

“Do the stars pollute the land, or the land the stars...?” Valerian trails off. “That’s not what I came to speak to you about. Some months ago, I sent a friend of mine your way. He--”

“[_Nidhogg’s Slayer_],” She says. “[Nidhogg’s Shade. Nidhogg’s legacy. The avatar of foolish vengeance given flesh and given form and given _power_.]” 

“His name’s Estinien,” Valerian says. 

“[Wyrmblood. Is that not what I said?]” 

“I wanted to know where he went,” Valerian says, politely. “I haven’t seen him since.” 

Tiamat’s voice hurts to hear. 

“[The whereabouts of Nidhogg’s Eyes,]” She says. “[He does not believe them lost, monument to agony that they are. Even in the depths of the abyss, agony calls to agony, and he believes they shall be found by those it resonates with-- those who would use them to raze cities, torment nations. Corrupt hearts.]” 

Valerian blinks, head cocked slightly to the side as he processes this information.

“Do you think that’s what will happen?” He asks, finally.

“[I am not blessed with future sight, child of man. I have not felt the presence of the Eyes since that foolhardy priest-king did use it with the Ascalon, the lance that slew my sister.]” 

Valerian pauses. 

“...Lance?” 

“[Was it reimagined in the fires of primal rebirth? Ratatoskr fell to the lance, such is my brother’s hatred of the instrument and its wielders.]” 

“It was reimagined as a sword from Haldrath’s corrupted corpse,” Valerian says. 

Tiamat’s contempt curdles the air around her, the keening of her magitech prison whining ever louder as the machinery strains to hold the ancient dragon. 

“[Death begets death, child of man. Leave me to my torment. Leave me to the silence.]” 

“But death _didn’t_ beget death,” Valerian says, strong and sure in the face of a being as strong as Nidhogg with both his eyes. “I brought them back. Well, some of them.” 

For the first time, Tiamat moves her head to stare down at the diminutive Warrior of Light. 

“[And what does mortal life mean to me, oh singer of the Dragonsong?]” Her voice roars in Valerian’s ears, deafening him. “[Oh you who has cast his eyes ever higher, you who’s own soul echoes with the cry of a fallen star!? Pray tell me. What do the lives of Ishgardian sinners add to the choir of the Heavens?]” 

For the first time since alighting in Azys Lla, Valerian smiles. 

“Can’t you hear it?” He whispers, mind echoing with the melody that permeates all of dreary, blood-soaked, beautiful Ishgard. “Can’t you hear their feeble new voices present in the Song?” 

In his mind, in _his_ heart, the tale is never ending. 

_Children of the land Answer this_

_Why must you turn to empty bliss?_

_Tell me why break trust, why turn the past to dust_

_Finding solace in the abyss._

“[It’s changed...]” There’s a small, endless pause. “[You are close to my father, singer of the choir. I know what you came here for.]” 

“No one is meant to suffer forever, Tiamat,” Valerian says, very, very quietly. He bows, solemn and small against the might of Azys Lla. “All any of us can do is keep our eyes forward, towards the next journey.” 

“[Your kindness is its own cruelty, Oh singer. But perhaps... I understand the change of this era, now.]”

Tiamat shifted, and once more grew still as a statue, quiet with her own thoughts.

“I’ll miss Ishgard,” Valerian says, suddenly. “I’ll be leaving soon, and even if I come back, I think I’ll miss it til the day I die. It will never be as cold as when I first stepped foot in it, ever again.” 

There’s no response, just the whine of magitech. 

“Good night, Tiamat,” Valerian says, walking slowly away until he reaches a certain distance. Then he smiles. It’s an awkward, off kilter expression, ill suited to his face, similar to the strange look in his eyes as he looks off towards Helix, and beyond that to the black void between the stars. 

“Good night, Ysayle,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “You did it.” There’s a soft wonder in his eyes, as if he’s finally found something beautiful in Azys Lla. 

His shoulders shake, unable to contain the enormity of grief. 

“‘Night, Haurchefant. I didn’t kill him after all. Sorry.” 

He shivers in a nonexistent wind, purple eyes edged in red. Then he straightens, voice smoothing out, the jagged edge of his mourning replaced with the calm, forward clarity of his purpose as his linkshell rings. 

“Yes. Yes, I’ll be there right away. In the Dravanian Hinterlands, you said? Don’t worry, I’m close by. I’ll head right over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don’t look at my summary (all of you probably)
> 
> The original dragonsong lyric is “seeking solace in the abyss”. Valerian here has changed it to “_finding_ solace in the abyss”. 
> 
> For those who read this for heaven’s ward appearances: im sorry. This chapter wasn’t about them, or was only about them in the way that dragons think of all of ishgard as one. For those who just like hvw lore, most of which i just plain make up: thank you so much for reading, this has been a pleasure.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment, I love to hear peoples thoughts!


End file.
